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FOUR-IN-HAND 











. .r 



♦ 



Mr. Di-rtiiJi: f! Toait 

Infers, Bffiy * iiabv anJ tnc Pide8K»f 

C'oily !o D^-cic 
ryi’iry aoidl Ijiic 




“—SHE WAS CULTURED AND SWEETLY FEMININE— 


Page Eight 




FOUR-IN-HAND 



a <S>coup of ^totfe0 

Mr. Durbar’s Toast 

Mrs. Billy’s Baby and the Professor 

From Dolly to Dick 

Poetry eind Life 


'Ey FRANK J. McCORMICK, Jr. 



USHARYof CONOH€S8 
Two Copies floeelvetf 

NOV 19 1906 


OipyrlcM Entry 

Tcev. /. / 9 0 L 
CLASS XXc.iN«< 

/ 4 a / / 0 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1906, by Frank J. McCormick, Jr. 


Published, November 1906 


Illustrations by Hanson Booth 
Decorations by Albert Loose 


€ C 


Press of 

United Brethren Publishing House 
Dayton, Ohio 


Here’s to you other Maids and Men : 

May each of you enjoy the keen delight of dis- 
covering that some sweet spiritual pathway of yours is 
also a favorite of another, and that, happening down 
together, you may come to that point of exquisite inti- 
macy where the kiss of heart is found upon the brow of 
mind — where the genius of soul sympathy ever presides. 





Coa0t 





f[0r. SDurftar’fit ®oa0t 




I 


*^OM’S letter was lying in her lap, and her 
mind was locked fast in an abstraction. 

Something had been perplexing her for 
several weeks, and this letter had brought the 
situation so squarely before her that she was 
trying, by the beat of her heart, to find just 
where she was. 

She picked up the letter and commenced to 
talk to it, in a pretty, confidential way. 

“ I am wonderfully interested in Mr. Durbar, 
Tom, and I wouldn’t for the world have you 
know just how much. It isn’t because my love 
for you is not real, or that it has diminished, but, 
somehow, his masterful personality has floated 
into that sweet back bay where only your boat 
and mine had been so delightfully tossing all 
these happy months — since March — since the 
twenty-seventh of March, and, ah, yes! — at a 
quarter to nine.” Here she laughed ripplingly, 
and added, “You remember noticing the exact 
time, and your suggestion that even the clock 
was in sympathy with us, because one of its big, 
hustling minutes had just caught the little hand 


Page Five 


SDutbar'iS '^Itoa^t 


of nine. And how we laughed right there at 
the solemn moment ! It was the la5t night you 
spent in N — , and a dear, dear night it was. 

“ I’m only a girl, Tom. They say I’m bright 
and all that, and I know my heart is sound — 
yet, this man, in his calm, kindly, subtle way, 
has compelled me to — to like him. Yes, that’s 
all, Tom. There has been no approach to 
anything more. In fact there’s something about 
him that repels the thought, and I don’t know 
what it is. At times. I’m afraid 1 shall find it 
out, and that — oh, no, Tom, it cannot be. The 
very dread I have must be an evidence of loyalty 
to you — mustn't it? But, Harrie is just a girl, 
and girls reason out things only so far, and then 
jump the rest of the way. 

“ I am going home to-morrow, and that will 
end it all. I trust, in the meantime. I’ll not 
stumble upon this mysterious something, because 
alongside of his splendid mind and character it 
might not be worth consideration. As matters 
are, I feel an important element is lacking, and 
if I do not know what it is, the mild fever which 
threatens must pass away, when I leave.” 

The bell rang below. 

‘‘There he comes, Tom. I’ll kiss you to 
make sure he cannot part us. This is his last even- 
ing, and I’ll answer your letter just as soon as I 
reach home.” And then she put the letter away. 


Page Six 


Sl^r. 2C)ttr6ar*0 'Eoagit 


Before the dressing-table Harriet Livingstone^^ 
lingered a few minutes. Certain things upon it 
were lifted. Some refractory brown hair needed 
to be disciplined, but it really wasn’t necessary 
to do what she did to that serio-smiling face. 
After one last adjustment, sixty odd inches of 
loveliness, in fluffy white, descended to meet 
Mr. John Durbar, who was waiting in the south 
parlor. 

* * * 

However it happened, nobody knew, but 
about its truth there was no doubt. Mr. Durbar 
was interested. John Elton Durbar, bachelor of 
forty-tliree, was very much interested. Not that 
he indulged in the ordinary expressions of mas- 
culine devotion, such as a growing frequency of 
visits, and noticeable attentions; oh, no, the nail 
manufacturer didn’t do things that way. He 
permitted his interest in Harriet Livingstone to 
assert itself much the same as he conducted his 
nail factory — conservatively, circumspectly, and 
with keen regard for the tendencies of the 
market. 

Six weeks before. Miss Livingstone arrived 
for a visit at the home of her aunt, Mrs. Jack 
Newcombe. Mr. Durbar happened in on that 
particular evening, to discuss some business matter 
with Mr. Newcombe, else it is likely the two 


Page Seven 


2Dut6at'0 ^0a0t 


would never have met, because John Durbar 
did not enter society even to so slight an extent 
as to call informally on a woman friend. 

But he was honest about this matter with 
himself. It was characteristic of him. He 
confessed that he was captivated, and acknowl- 
edged that at their very first meeting he had 
felt a spiritual click, which unleashed something 
within, and started in his soul an intoxicating 
unrest that he never knew before. However, he 
kept himself well in hand. That was John 
Durbar out and out. He restrained his incli- 
nations and permitted himself to originate just 
one personal affair for her entertainment. He 
did not wish to give the least indication of any- 
thing more than cavalier kindness and courtesy 
until he knew something more had been created 
in her. His heart was kept in restraint, while 
he sent his mind on in advance, to reconnoitre. 
To Durbar’s judgment of human nature was due 
much of his success in the commercial world, and 
now he bent his powers of diagnosis upon this, 
his first affair of love. He was sure that mental 
sympathy existed between them, but he had not 
yet detected in her any trace of the heart re- 
sponse he was seeking. She was cultured, and 
sweetly feminine, and in those wonderful eyes of 
hers there was some question, he said, which he 
was unable to interpret 



They had been talking animatedly and con- 
genially for full an hour. 

“I see by the paper, Mr. Durbar,” said 
Miss Livingstone, “that you are to respond to 
a toast next Tuesday night.” 

“Yes, our Alumni Association meets on that 
evening, and I am looking forward to an enjoy- 
able time.” 

“I have no doubt that on such occasions 
you great, serious men are like a crowd of young 
boys, and that your dignities are left out in the 
racks with your hats.” 

Mr. Durbar laughed as he replied, “ Well, 
that is quite true, but some of the ’79ers assert that 
another Durbar comes into existence at these 
alumni banquets, and dies with their ending.” 

“According to that there must be at least 
three of you, for I’m sure I’ve met the Dr. Jekyll 
personality; since you belong to the masculine 
division, I suppose there’s a Mister Hyde” — 
this with a mischievous smile — “and then this 
transcendental being who is to come to town so 
soon — I wonder what he may be like. Won’t 


/ ''aV 




)l 





Foffe Nine 


apt. 2DtttIiar'0 '2rpa0t 

you tell me about him ?” And she threw upon 
him her eyes — serious, subtle eyes, he called 
them. 

“Indeed, the suggestion of the boys isn’t 
complimentary, I assure you. They mean that 
my usual self doesn’t stray into those gardens 
where grow the rose and the violet; that 
that self lacks some of the humanity of the 
average man. They say. Miss Livingstone, 
that, ordinarily, I am dominated by affairs, rather 
than by people.” 

“That’s it!” she exclaimed, spontaneously, 
with a half startled expression ; and her thoughts 
went instantly to Tom. She had recognized the 
missing element. 

“Well, what have you discovered, may I 
ask?” said Mr. Durbar. 

“ Oh ! ” in a broken rising inflection ; and with 
just a trace of confusion she continued, “that’s 
the defect in your composition, don’t you see, 
and apparently it is well known.” 

Mr. Durbar saw at once he was treading on 
treacherous ground, yet he would not desist. 
It wasn’t a matter of whether the charge was 
true or not; the time was not ripe for that 
consideration, and if it ever came, his defense 
would rest with an honest attempt to disclose 
lal self to her, and not in mere denial, or 
ination. 



9$t, SDutbar'gf Coa0t 


Miss Livingstone was apprehensive. Th^/^* 
something which he lacked was sentiment. Sh^e'^' _ 
felt that was it ; his friends said so ; he as much ' 
as acknowledged it. Yet she wanted to flee 
from investigation; she feared, oh, she didn’t 
know what She thought of Tom, and then 
was glad that Mr. Durbar’s defect was such a 
vital one. She knew the absence of sentiment 
would never be justified by her. 

It was Mr. Durbar who started. 

“ But Miss Livingstone, 1 merely stated that 
it was an accusation ; the familiar fling at a man 
— well, at a man of forty, who is unmarried. 
Can’t even such a man possess sentiment?” 

“ I should hope so, indeed,” she replied, 
“although I do not think the deposit is usually 
large.” 

“Is sentiment then such a delicate element 
that it can’t keep pace with physical and intel- 
lectual growth ? At the age of which I speak 
all human faculties are at their fullest vigor, and 
why not the product of the human heart?” 

“Mr. Durbar, my opinion is that sentiment 
should be nourished just the same as the body 
and the mind are fed. The heart should be 
allowed to express itself as the man is develop- 
ing, and it should be allowed to feel the impulses 
which are sent to it by other hearts. Please 
excuse the personal allusion, but you started it 




ape. SDtttbar’iS 



I 


May I suggest that perhaps you have subordi- 
nated sentiment to the factors which caused the 
successes you have achieved; and, if so, do 
you think a dwarfed activity, a heart that was 
prisoned in its youth can now perform its proper 
function in life, with a mind and body that 
received constant care and training, and which 
have grown and thriven ? ” 

This keen philosophic observation increased 
the turmoil in Durbar’s soul. He replied, 

“Yet on the other hand. Miss Livingstone, 
limiting the question to that extraordinary 
attachment existing between man and woman, 
look at the mawkish wastage of sentiment 
in the young, and the impracticability of giving 
it unrestrained freedom before the man is 
man, and is fit to bestow, or receive the 
great gift, which maturity but mellows and 
refines.” 

“ There you are making it a matter of prac- 
ticability. Let’s be human beings first, and 
philosophers afterward. Give bread to the 
body, knowledge to the mind, and love to the 
heart; but don’t gorge the two former, and then 
pretend it is for the eventual benefit of the poor 
starving heart.” 

Mr. Durbar’s reply came promptly. 

‘ Leaving pretense aside, I should like to ask, 
[ not better that the body have its bread, and 



Pa^ Twdve 


2Datfiat’0 Coaitft 

the mind its knowledge, before love, with it^;;^" 
sweet though ever serious obligations, is permitt^ 
to enter the heart?” * 

“O Mr. Durbar, that is the usual argument 
and seems defensible, but ask the successful 
unmarried man of forty for the answer. Ask 
yourself, to-night, when you go home, and are 
alone, save for such dead things as books, and 
pictures, and the like. My view is. Give the 
body its food for to-day so that it can perform 
its allotted work ; give the mind enough know- 
ledge that it may be able to wrestle successfully 
with the difficulties which are immediately at 
hand; then stop and rest the tired head and 
weary arm, while you give the heart a draught 
to drink. Mr. Durbar, I don’t believe that love 
will thrive on a crust, but I do believe there are 
many more mart3nrs in the cause of love, while 
waiting for a full meal, than there are deaths 
from starvation because of a too prompt response 
to its entreaty. But aren’t we getting dreadfully 
deep? I forgot to ask you the subject of your 
toast?” 

Mr. Durbar did not respond inunediately, and 
there was part of a smile upon his face when he 
replied. 

“The subject I’ve selected is, ‘The Sphere 
of the Business Man.’ ” 

The silence which followed wasn’t noticeable 








9^r. 2!)nt6at’0 Coa0t 



to them, because it was a speaking silence — the 
thoughts passed each other swiftly, but un- 
worded. 

Mr. Durbar suddenly broke in, “You are 
thinking how well the theme supports the charge 
against me, and, perhaps, pity me because I do 
not talk on lovelier things in life, such as college 
days, or sweethearts and wives.” 

The expression on Miss Livingstone’s counte- 
nance showed that this suggestion was true. 

He continued, “ Let me ask. Why might not 
a man of forty exemplify the quintessence of 
sentiment by guarding behind the cold outworks 
of externality a love which came to him in 
youth, and which was so strong that it kept 
alive on memory alone, or, why might not such 
a man have failed altogether to find the love for 
which his soul was waiting?” 

“ It is an outright impertinence for me to say 
it, but I believe you would not offer the first as 
a personal reason. No love is great enough to 
require such constancy, and no normal man is 
foolish enough to believe that it does. As to 
the alternative, if the heart does not put itself in 
the way of finding, it does not find ; and what- 
ever the cause of its failure, when it doesn’t 
find, its own tender impulses are in grave danger 
of wasting away.” 

le conversation was then interrupted by 



Pagt Fov/rteen 




Spr. SDnrbat'^ Coastt 

Mrs. Newcombe’s entrance, and the discussioij^ 
was left in the mid-seas. ( ' 

To Mr. Durbar, composed and dignified as 
he bade good-by, these serious reflections might 
have been but a piquant incident in the evening’s 
conversation. Miss Livingstone extended to him 
her hand, and said, “After the toast on ‘The 
Sphere of the Business Man’ is over Tuesday 
night, won’t you pledge a spiritual toast, in 
memory of the interesting moments we have 
spent together? And if the guiding stars of our 
destinies be not sister stars, I am willing to 
thank mine for this meeting with you.” 

“ Miss Livingstone, — ” and he stopped. His 
will was a watchful sentinel. “I shall gladly 
pledge that toast, and will supplement it with 
the hope that we may soon meet again.” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Durbar,” and, as he passed 
down, and turned to raise his hat, “ I am going 
to expect a copy of the paper containing your 
toast. I want to know more about this sphere 
which engrosses so many men.” 

“It is kind of you to request it, jmd there 
will be pleasure in sending the account to you. 
Good-night — good-by. Miss Livingstone.” 

He returned his hat to his head, and was soon 
lost in the shadows of the low-hanging trees. 

Miss Livingstone paused a moment, and, with 
a sympathetic little sigh, she slowly left the door. 




Page Fifteen 





III 

When John Durbar reached his apartment 
that night, he had given not the least indication 
of his love to the girl who now completely 
absorbed his soul. 

“ ‘A martyr of love while waiting for a full 
meal!’ It is a comprehending epigTcun,” he 
repeated, “ but the love I bear her shows that it 
is not always true.” 

He picked up a picture of his mother — ^it was 
the only woman’s face in the room — and with 
it in his hand he sat down at his desk. 

It did not seem thirty years since, one day, he 
gave her twelve kisses ; a kiss for each year he 
was old. It was his birthday. And when the 
next was come, he cried one hour over her 
grave. 


“O God! Certainly then there was love!” 
And, indeed, his aunt, with whom he after- 
wards lived, might have told how his boyish 
heart was often seen to overflow. 

He looked far across, noting some of the 



Page,8i3Ae€n 


9^r. jaDtttbar'0 Coagt 


man and woman, has always appealed to me,^ 
and never have I seen a wedding or a coup}^^ 
on their honeymoon, but what a great lump- 
went slowly down my throat. 

“And after all these years, this sweet girl, 
who has shown me the highest reach of world- 
happiness, says it is not for me, because in the 
heart of a bachelor of forty there lies only the 
dead or dying petals of red roses. She argues 
well, but how utterly wrong her theory can 
sometimes be ! 

“ Perhaps she may not have been the first to 
hold for me life’s rare refreshment, but just the 
first I recognized. Who knows what it might 
have been, if I had given the heart to drink, long 
ago! Instead, I’ve — ” a pause — “Oh, damn 
nails, and damn the ‘sphere of business.’ I have 
been but frittering my time away.” 

He leaned back in his chair, and for about 
thirty minutes his eyes lay thoughtfully on his 
mother’s picture. Then he rose, drew out a pad 
from his desk, and laid a pencil beside it. He 
looked at his watch; it was 1:15 A.M. After 
removing his coat, he sat down and wrote, with 
intermittent pauses, until the clock in a neigh- 
boring church-tower boomed the hour of four. 


Pagi Seventeen 





IV 

There was no happier man conceivable, the 
morning after the banquet, than John Durbar, 
as he sat in his private office, and leisurely 
proceeded to cut a clipping from the morning 
paper. 

She had asked him for it. “I can see her 
now arranging pillows, and settling herself into 
an easeful position, in preparation for the task 
of reading a dry old speech on ‘ The Sphere of 
the Business Man*. And the advance sympathy 
the dear girl will expend on the poor man who 
has commercialitus ! ” He laughed like a boy of 
twenty, as these reflections scurried through his 
mind. 

“ How rd like to be near her, but invisible, 
while she reads it ! ” And he wondered if the 
toast would acquit him of the charge. And if 
it did, what then? The pleasure was fairly 
beaming in his face, as his attention was at that 
moment directed to his personal mail, which had 
just been placed upon his desk. On top was 



Paa€ Eiohtecn 


apr* SDtttbat'sf ^oasJt 

came from Harriet Livingstone. Into a blank^ 
envelope quickly went the clipped speech ; the 
paper was dropped into a waste-basket, and in 
a tremble of exquisite excitement Durbar opened 
the letter. Isn’t it delightful to see how aptly 
we take on love’s pretty little ways whether we 
begin to worship at twenty or at forty ? The 
letter consisted of two four-page sheets, and the 
sometime student and analyst leaned back in his 
chair and began to read. 


My dear Mr. Durbar: 

TTie bunch of violets which came to me before I left 
was such a thoughtful and dainty little “amen” to my 
delightful visit with Aunt Jack. 

In some ways a flower is the nicest of remembrances. 
It modestly speaks its pretty piece, and then gently fades 
away. Books and thmgs have a manner of saying, for- 
ever, “ I came from so and so.” They are so “ flaunty” 
about it. 

Honest, Mr. Durbar, I should have expected anything 
but flowers from you ; you know a wee bit of sentiment 
always attaches to them, and sentiment is your lost art — 
no, art isn’t the word. 

I was half glad when Aunt Jack interrupted our talk 
on Friday evening, because I was afraid you’d somehow 
argue me down; and although I am sure your words 
could not keep me from feeling as I feel, I do so want 
to preserve an untroubled belief in that direction, too. 
Indeed, I was very much in earnest. 

Perhaps, after aJl, the little girl was — 



A 

' ■ 

a;#- 



Page Nineteen 


2DtttIiat'0 tirpa0t 



With a glistening eye, Mr. Durbar laid down 
the one sheet, and taking up the other he con- 
tinued : 

Really, meeting him was the most interesting event 
of my visit. — 

“ Hello, ’must be something missing here ! ” 
But he looked without result, and then pro- 
ceeded. 

He is a masterful man. I am conceited enough 

to believe he likes me as well as I like him, and yet 
we disagreed on important things. I noticed this: he 
uses no words with hidden meanings to them, and we 
discussed love much the same as we*d discuss a piece 
of statuary. — 

“Whew!” That was a long, low whistle 
from Durbar. “ ’Tisn’t strictly on the level, but 
IVe got her opinion, and I might as well have it 
all. Wait till she gets the toast I am sending to 
her; that will smash her statuary simile all to 
smithereens.” 


1 


Do you know, Tom,- 


Another whistle, longer than the first. 


1 Ve never met a man just like him, and the next 



2Dtttbat’0 'llDoadt 

WeD, I thought I’d get you good and jealous 
describmg my new friend before I told you what^/1 
thought of your fourteen particular reasons why we ; 
should make it September, instead of October. Don’t 
you know, you dear old impetuous boy, — 

Mr. Durbar looked up, either because of this 
endearing address, or because a boy was stand- 
ing before him with a telegram. 

He took the message and tore it open with a 
quick movement. It was printed in red ink, and 
contained the following : 

“Please return to me letter you will get sometime 
to-morrow. HARRIET LIVINGSTONE." 

That explained it all. 

Somewhere, far, far away, he saw in dim 
confusion, one evening when a girl arrived at 
Jack Newcombe’s, a night at the opera, a dance, 
a girl and a man in conversation, and a man 
giving a toast at a banquet. For the moment 
they seemed as dreams — Imagination appeared 
to have taken the pictures across the hall and 
hung them in the phantom gallery. 

“Mister, will you sign the book?” 

Durbar had quite forgotten about the messen- 
ger, who was waiting for the return of the black 
covers. 

He replaced Miss Livingstone’s letter in the 
envelope without reading another line, and taking 




Page Twenty -One 


9^c. 2Dntbat’0 Coaiat 





the clipping of his speech, he deliberately crum- 
pled it up into a small paper ball and dropped it 
into the wicker basket. 

A few minutes later this was penned : 

Dear Miss Livingstone : 

Your telegram came after I had begun to read your 
letter, and, upon its receipt, I immediately desisted. I am 
returning it herewith in the original envelope. 

Please believe. Miss Livingstone, that I thoroughly 
enjoyed meeting and talking to you ; and if things of iron 
and steel have been made incarnate, and, being a part of 
my personality, have crowded out some humem activities, 
I must lay the cause to that spirit of world-progress which 
is now achieving its wonders in every direction by pro- 
ducing specialists and particularists, who, as a matter of 
fact, are nothing more than a lot of extraordinary, lop- 
sided men. 

I hope your visit has produced pleasant memories, and 
that I may have the pleasure of renewing our acquaint- 
anceship — or, may I put it, friendship ? 

Sincerely yours, 

John Durbar. 

Miss Harriet Livmgstone, 

N . 


Might he put it friendship? Durbar was a 
good loser. He had retrieved certain other 
losses; this? — one could not tell what he thought 



9^. 2DttCbac’g< %oafft 


The Secretary met him at the door. // 

“Good morning, John; let me congratulate'''^ 
you. I believe there was a painter, or some- 
body, who said he woke up one morning and 
found himself famous. Well, you’ve done that 
very thing to-day.” 

“ How’s that, Charlie ? ” 

“ I dropped in at The Morline, a little while 
ago, and that toast of yours, last night, is the 
sole topic of discussion. They say down there 
it’s a classic; I read it, and say it’s a gem. 
Wonderful little girl that is able to shake up 
a fellow’s thoughts like that, and leave such 
beautiful ones on top. Eh, John?” and he 
nudged him familiarly. 

“ Charlie, I ’d be a cad if I didn’t appreciate 
the way you boys receive my effort, but the 
praise is rather over-generous. I just worked 
off a little surplus accumulation of sentiment. It 
has been collecting in my system for about twenty 
years, and I thought it would relieve me to let it 
out. By the way, have they begun to erect that 
carrier at No. 3?” 

“They were to start this morning, so Davis 
told me last evening. But say, John, about that 
toast — ” 

Mr. Durbar was just opening the door, and 
answered with one of his standard smiles, “ Not 
just now, Charlie, please. I am off to see 


Pace Twenty-Three 


SDttt&at'0 Coa0t 


Harkins.” And he walked out, and entered 
one of a chain of buildings. 

There were twelve hundred men at work; 
and the groaning, and grinding, and whirling of 
the machinery told of how excellently and eco- 
nomically the energy of each of them was being 
converted into value. 

“’Mornin*, Mr. Durbar!” “Good momin’, 
sir!” And with greetings such as these, from 
his men, the head of the company was led, 
somehow, into comparing his life with theirs. 

“ These very men are living broader and fuller 
lives than mine has been. After their work they 
go home and enter a world I have only seen in 
a few scattering dreams. Yet I have money, a 
high position among my fellows, and perhaps 
a touch of culture; and they have none of 
these.” 

And thus he mused as he passed along. 

Saddest of all was the consideration that he, 
too, possessed the capacity to enjoy this other 
world, and that, one day, when accident found 
him within the borderlands, there came a little 
spirit child and with never a word or sign it 
entered in and there began to sweep its spirit 
hand across the zither of his soul. Then Love’s 
guarding emgel drew near to him, and listened; it 
was the test of his fitness to enter the world of 
But she heard not the deeply muffled 


Page Twenty- Four 


2Dntbat:’0 Coa^t 

melody, and, waiting awhile, she said, “Alas!/^ 
there is no song ! ” And as the angel turned to 
close for that day the entrance to that other 
world, she prayed a little prayer that it be not 
yet too late, and that he might come again with 
mended sounding-board, or with tuneful zither 
strings. Alack the day ! she did not know of 
the throbbing harmonies that were filling all his 
soul, because no sound came out to ear; no 
light, to eye. 

Mr. Durbar was crossing over to Furnace 
No. 3 when his attention was directed to the 
siding, adjacent to the Shipping Department, on 
which he observed three loaded cars. A ladder 
lay against one of them and a man stood upon 
it in the act of affixing a shipping sign. The 
sign bore these words : 

“ Loaded with nails, 

“From The Durbar Steel & Iron Co.” 

The President of the institution, noting it, 
muttered aloud, “Yes, Durbar, you’re a special- 
ist, and your line is neiils.” 

Five minutes later, he was deep in the dis- 
cussion of some details with Harkins, regarding 
the erection of the new carrier system. 








Pape Twenty-Five 


apt. SDttt&at'iSi 



V 


If one were to have reached the waste-basket 
belonging to John Durbar’s desk, that day, before 
the janitor made his rounds, he could have re- 
claimed a certain twisted ball of paper. By using 
care, the piece which had been clipped from a 
morning journal might have been smoothed out, 
and with close scrutiny, because of the creases, it 
would have disclosed the following : 

“ who will speak to us to-night on ‘Our 

Mother.’ ” Mr. Durbar rose amid the applause 
which followed the toastmaster’s introduction. 
He waited some little while, and then began in 
measured, sonorous tones. 

There is an arc resting in far-off misty days 
which rises and describes its way, with broad 
and gentle bow, until it dips and rests again, 
somewhere in the shadows of a Garden of 
Night It is the curve which marks the conunon 
life of mother and us. 

“To-night as we fling back the mind to the 
scenes when our little steps were side by side 
with hers, if it will, let the heart be speeded 
faster, and no matter if the brain lose itself in 
contemplation ; ’t is a pure and holy 



Page Tiventj/Slx 


SDtttfiat'jef Coadt 

homage which can hardly fail to come when-/^ 
ever we bend to kiss awake those dream-eyed 
sleepers of the past, and try to see once more 
the early love-prints which pressed so enduringly 
upon our youthful memories. 

“O the days of delightful, unremembered 
Babyhood! Just mother was there. 

“ What though the ecstasy of her soft, warm, 
love-blown breath was ours ere Memory sat 
with quill in hand to mark it down; what 
though was left unsung the love which crept 
from lips to lips when her head and ours kept 
tryst in downy lands, we know it thrilled the 
tiny heart just started, and that it was as real as 
those divine bits which are scattered in our lives 
to-day. 

“ If baby minds were older and baby tongues 
could tell, there would go out into the world 
classics on mother-love that human eyes and 
ears never yet have drunk into the human soul. 

“And the communion of that love ! In later 
years when the mind is somehow yoked to the 
heart. Love will signal back to Love by placing 
a sweet word upon the tongue, a sparkle in the 
eye, or a rose-leaf upon the cheek ; but in baby 
days this cannot be, and mother is content to 
mostly give, and is supremely happy if her little 
one but crudely stammers back its love in a cooing 
jargon, or in a frantic movement of chubby hands. 



J ^ '' y ' 

M"' /J 


-0 



Page Twenty-Seven 


2Dut&at’0 <lloei0t 


“ Helped by her, we stepped from the cradle 
and walked amid the vernal blooms of boyhood 
days. We stumbled awkwardly into ideas and 
against the hundred things of life that lay around 
us, but in the sunless hours, or when Grief had 
placed a tiny goblet to our Ups, little legs made 
straight for mother’s lap where cheer and solace, 
blent with love, were always waiting. 

“And so sped the time of youth. 

“ The months and years have hurried by, and 
with them have gone many rosy hours, but yet 
how cherished the delight which is left us of 
passing from pillow to pillow, where each 
wakened memory looks up, drowsy-eyed, to 
tell its own sweet story. 

“ Do you see a form romping through the old 
house, scampering across the old back-yard, and 
playing a favorite game in a neighboring com- 
mons? Mother was somewhere near. Mark 
you that trail of life which wound in and out of 
school and lecture hall, and how the long years 
are happily broken by pictures of her ? 

“And need we be minded by stories of the 
past of how mother helped to unfold the love 
we, one day, found within our heart ? So came 
the dear attachments : first for God, and then, in 
some degree, for every one and for every thing 
in all the places we have tarried. 

‘^*'What a tug is given to mother’s heart 


Page Ttventy-Eight 


“—WHAT A TUG IS GIVEN TO MOTHER’S HEART 

WHEN FINALLY HER BOY LEAVES THE OLD HOME 


Page Twenty-Eight 


W ^ • !'! 

; ■ . ' •» • -.nc crauie 

srni ws / ' ■..• '■ ;.».oo<l 

«Jiiy^ ' ■ : . end 



'pi; .c!< ;■ ji-. t. ;,.. ou; ^. i' 'r 'idf 

. .•- •kilAJUff. ii'JiaHTOM'QT f>0qc a 'tAfW-," ^ 

'-KMOHxiao HHi’ davAiarj Toa arftrSrAJti.mt WsH’ff 
,ik V ■ ' . • waiiir.g- 

, sv>%.f youth. 

n, f *ve hurried by, and 
... :r. is^y hours, Init yei 
di light hkh is left us d 
'..How, where audi^ 
' iy-eyedl W 

-. 3 ^ 

li®.? 

■s: • 

- Mark 
. I -n ir«l aat of 
r.. V. 1 he fong years 

'.fones of die 
pinfold the love 
■ut' S-. caiue 
: • ; . . ' .•■; :*.-e{ 

. •. -• f.'..',; e>-‘iY diiaif 

' - ^^ined. 

■ - -..-.(Hfd't. l^esit 





s 


i 


V 


l 



I 


f 


>V 



S' 

. t 


SDtttbat’^ Coajst 

wWn finally her boy leaves the old 
True, you who are wed felt its lighter side of 
sorrow, too, but this was largely submerged by 
the glories of a happy marriage. To her it also 
had a bright side, the consideration that you 
were sympathetically mated ; yet as to her per- 
sonal life, there was a notable dipping on the 
sad side of the balance. Her love and training 
had guided you into manhood, and one fair 
mom, in the midst of her contemplative joy, 
another came; and however tenderly her arm 
was unclasped to make place for that stranger 
arm, it put a hurt — oh, such a sad hurt! — ^in 
mother’s heart. 

“ No man can tell the height, or the depth, or 
the breadth of the love of a good mother ; it is 
eternal, incomprehensible, as the stars are. 

“Boys of ’79 gathered here this evening, let me 
say a word about mother when we commence to 
tell her age by scores, and when, perhaps, like a 
mirage of the long-ago, other childish forms are 
climbing upon her knee. 

“ See her as she sits there, slowly stroking the 
head of your boy, but all the while thinking of 
her boy, of what a joy he was to her. 

“She lives quite apart from the noises and 
worries which fill our lives. She is gradually 
growing back into heaven. Gone already is the 
fairness of her face, the soft charm in her voice, 

Pape Twerdy-Nine 










!9tpt. SDntbat’ie( 'TEoadt 



and the sable from her head ; part-gone is her 
sight and hearing, and all but gone is her 
strength. Yet love remains — great, and tender, 
and tme. 

“And how this love perennial will still try to 
articulate ! For when you are around, her soul 
will send its sweet old endearments to the wonted 
places, but the voice, eye, and cheek cannot spell 
them out in the same old way. The old instru- 
ment is worn out, but the Player doesn ’t know 
it; she only knows that the melody is singing as 
sweetly as ever in her mother-heart. 

“ Boys, let us kiss mother good-night. And 
whether she is yet with us, or has gone on 
ahead, may her love brighten the weary way 
and may it, somehow, teach us the music of 
those other loves for which there is also hunger 
in the souls of men.” 

* * 


This is the entire contents of the clipping 
John Durbar was on the point of sending to 
Harriet Livingstone. 

But the piece, cut out of that morning paper, 
remained in the basket. It lay there until the 
janitor came in the evening. And thus one of 



Page Thirty 


la^r. SDtttbat’jS '^Eoast 

by the beauty of its thought and presentation^^ 
and yet was not allowed to drop one litlJe 
word, of all its many dear ones, into the soul of 
the girl to whom even the idlest pause had 
carried his breath. 


Paerei Thirty- O m 


4 


S^s. JSillp’g Balip anU tt)t 
^toftesot 



Baft? anD t^ie 
i^rofeesioir 

I 


/f^lYRS. Billy and her baby, did you say? 
jl^l’ And for two weeks!’ With this I 
threw down a work on crystallog- 
raphy, in sheer astonishment, and looked over 
at the rest of the family. 

“ Father retained his hold upon the article he 
was reading ; mother sent her eyes, reprovingly, 
over the upper golden edge of her glasses, and 
my sisters, maidens both, weren’t a bit pleased 
with the prospect ; but they saw in it a delicious 
opportunity to make articulate the cumulative 
bachelor proclivities of a professor in chemistry 
who had turned thirty-seven. 

‘“Yes’, returned Kath, ‘and you won’t get a 
chance to go away ; they come to-morrow after- 
noon.’ 

“‘My God!’ This was no expletive; it 
was prayerful appeal. 

“Said Margaret; 

“ ‘ Just think, Jim, this time to-morrow evening 
it will be ootzie-wootzie and booh, with shoi 
rapid, horizontal shakings of the head.’ 

“This sent me straight to bed, but 
I moaned. 



Page Thirty- Thr^e 


©rtlg'si Bab? 


‘“Two weeks in the society of a female who 
just one hundred and eighty days ago discovered 
the funny little wiggler used for pitching sound 
out into the open I 1 wonder ’ 

“ Presently the will gave up the reins, and I 
slept in the teeth of impending horrors. 

“ Well, we couldn’t help it. Mrs. Billy is a 
dear little around-the-comer sort of a relative, 
and she just notified us that Letty Gray and she 
were coming. What could we do about it? 

“The baby came. 

“Absolutely the first human being of her age 
I had ever seen ; at least since I’d been wearing 
my trousers all the way down. There was a 
hazy impression of two other such, but that was 
away back while I ran at large in short pants. 

“By ingenious arrangement, I delayed the 
introduction for two days. When it occurred, 
I shied like a young colt ; sidled along the wall ; 
felt of my teeth ; and advanced by millimeters. 

“ The baby promptly reached out and shook 
hands with my nose, just as if that were the 
egular place to do it, and treated the laughter 
hich ensued with the bland satisfied unconcern 
f a Jerome K. Jerome unloosening one of his 
funny stories. 

“ My years of battle in the world had given 
me a certain shiftiness of manner, and I started 
negotiations with the pinch of humanity. In 


Page Thirty-Four 


and l^toftidiaoc 

an hour I could stand quite near without batting 
an eye; and in two — 

“The mysteries and mutabilities which were 
once locked up fast in to-morrow bewilder us in 
the retrospection of to-day. 

“That kid drove right up, threw back the 
wheezy-hinged strong-door of my heart without 
the least effort, and then commenced to ‘queen’ 
its multifarious apartments. 

“Cynicisms poised on the end of my tongue 
and then rolled back; and springs, long dry, 
commenced agciin to trickle. 

“At table, Letty Gray was strapped into an 
altitudinous receptor which mother had dug out of 
that attic-chamber where memories are tearfully 
folded and Imd away. This naturally revived 
the history of that particular Eifel tower of baby- 
world, and then it was, 

“‘Papa, do you remember the day Jimmy 
upset the apple-butter into his lap?* 

“Jimmy didn’t; and mother was always 
pleased to recount the sad details. 

“ Baby was flanked on my side by her mother 
and my older sister; yet we carried on our 
discussions quite animatedly, and conversation 
was illuminated by both gesture and S3nnl 
“There was a general disagreement on 
subject of proper food for very little 
Baby, herself, seemed to be entei 



Page Thirty-Five 


transmigrated soul of a goat whenever we dined, 
because she inclined to napkin-rings and to the 
extremities of ordinary spoons. Of course, she 
was perfectly silly in so doing. I suggested a 
medium-sized pickle. The tartness would be 
a surprise to the infant palate; the globiferous 
projections would enable her to get a hold upon 
it; and I figured that the ‘give* there is to a 
pickle would be splendid for her gums, especially 
since the dental shafts were beginning to rise. 

“ But Mrs. Billy was dogmatic, as mothers 
usually are. Letty Gray was to have no solids 
in her little ‘tummy’ until the second summer, 
and my pickle suggestion was merely waved 
away. 

“Bon mots flew out fast and furious. Father 
and mother wheeled out from the shade of 
reminiscence a lot of old rusty vocal artillery; 
and my sisters, with the naiveties of the early 
twenties, frequently held the little one’s attention. 

“But it was really I — with the possible 
“xception of the mother — who transmitted most 
btly. Many a little pleasantry went over and 
pped for entrance at the tiny understanding, 
nd when a little feathery smile came out to 
signal back ‘yours received and noted,’ I felt 
that the feminine sex, as a class, could not be 
charged with unresponsiveness. 



BEFORE THE FORTNIGHT WAS UP LETTY GRAY 
AND I WERE CHUMS—” 


Page CThirty-Seven 




itesi fv.'ji « I rj goai ~Am‘xvct we dined, 
? r ,: «K jnv'ifi' V )r.!ii »: >?<-nog* and to the 

'."■ ta '/f spo!.t'i^. C)t course, she 

'a, ;c vs doi;v,', I suggested a 

■ ■’ ;■' . »iT-V: l%e iaccness wcidd be 

■ i . tl’e ;iant palate; th'; ^b^^erou* 

YAao Star oap'raa-noi’J UDon 

r-f HITHO aaav/^ i awA . , 

iS: aac X 'cf t^;at ?!«: grve there tt to a 
j Ktfeie woii;<s>we<s>i^ wii {or her gums, especially 
u‘ ' . • were beginning to me. 

ri?? M v it dogmatic, as mothers 

ust.sif- are ) i-y U y was tt> have ao solids 
r.r.; -v'';' secoed summer, 

’> ' ■ *■ ■...•■ .- w wfi^'ed 

*s, r'asba 

- ’ i. ■■ ;r. ;r-T’- o( 

: V • .. • ,• ivrtiHm*; 

•■■■■'■■ •■’■/ ' -v ■••'*■!..'. 'f 

•- ) ' ^ •• 4.1 ' • ■ auentiaa. 

•' ■■'• ' ■^! :x)esible' 

’ ■ ■ • ■' f • '•'ho '■■?i'5sr.#}i;{eG most 

,f .. p!cu?-mLvy orer and 

_• : ' f e at he -jy understandb^ 

n- - -rKru a Irtde feathciy soule came out to 
g . ? • ’you:ns receiv-r^i -,.»d noted,’ 1 felt 
i- . r ;n :,nine sec, cs b cUsih, couU not be 
w<-' .JUjespccisv®e:is. 




J 



I 


r ■ 

• < 








It 





'» ' • A 

•*V 

• . J 


t 



























and tie ptofegtsfot 


“ During the course of the visit, I developed 
quite a nice little working vocabulary of baby- 
tagalog. True, the verbs were a bit scrambled, 
and I confess to having been damn uncertain 
about the subjunctive mood, but I want to say, 
on the tenth day, when, in a burst of enthusiasm 
and with entire spontaneity on my part, I retorted 
to an insinuating remark from the high-chair, 
Buz-wuz-wuz-wuz' with the appropriate 
gesture, I felt mightily proud of myself. 

“ Before the fortnight was up, Letty Gray and 
I were chums. We had osculating and oscilla- 
ting games, and games with rabbits sitting on 
wooden hemispheres, and more dialogues in 
baby-tagalog. 

“ When I put Mrs. Billy and Letty Gray on 
the train, and threw my last kiss through the 
car-window to the little one, I felt a great lone- 
liness stealing down upon me, and I muttered, 
walking home, 

‘“Girls do not grow interesting as they 
approach maturity; at six months they are at 
perihelion, and they decline with the accretion 
of years.* 

“ You see, with Letty Gray gone, my cyni- 
cism was come back agmn. 


Page Thirty-Seven 





“For ten years I hammered away in my 
laboratory with mortar and pestle, and with 
tube and flask and Bunsen burner; and with 
thermal units, atomic weights, and text-book 
stuff before my classes. 

“They were splendid years; science grew 
and 1 grew with it. My experiments led me 
into particular fields where 1 attempted to 
specialize, and while a good deal of my time 
was devoted to irksome college demands, there 
were many quiet hours spent in my study and in 
my pet laboratory, adjoining, just tinkering — just 
tinkering. 

“All this while, you may be sure, I kept in 
i with the little maid who lived in Selma, 
ne two hundred miles away. 

[‘At three, 1 had discontinued to express my 
ndship by means of rubber and wooden 
and entered the doll era with character- 
tic abandon; there were four to my credit 
before her months were forty-eight. Then 1 
plunged into diminutive household furniture, the 
dear old London brand of Chatterbox, and 




Page Thirty-Eight 


anti tde 


always dolls — larger and prettier dressed ones. 

“ Letty Gray and I saw each other, a time or 
two, each year; letters sacredly punctuated the 
intervals, and things went on, famously. 

“Then came my call to the German Univer- 
sity, and the publication of my book, ‘ Studies in 
Dimorphous Crystals.’ 

“ Life’s perspective lay alluringly before, and 
I trotted along with a song in my heart, and 
with fascinating formulas in my head. 

“Later, for the better part of two years, I 
circled the globe, engaging myself in investiga- 
tions, and in the study of comparative methods; 
and now I was home again, on a visit. 

“And what of Mrs. Billy’s baby after all this 
time? 


“This morning I went to the station to meet 
the train bearing a party which was returning 
from the South. 

“ The train was twenty-six minutes late. 

“Ten years of sight-hunger and twenty of 
heart-hunger waited with me, and though 
steadied by the maturity of sixty and a life of 
analytic calm, I chased all restraint away while I 
reflected, 

“ ‘ How little more does sixty measure than 
thirty when you match it against eternity ! ’ 

“The train panted in; hissed the fact; 
the trucks rattled and the people rushed. 

JPage Thirty-Nine 





“Ten paces from the iron grill I stood, and 
quickly caught sight of three persons advancing 
to the gate, 

“ Something tall and fair and laughing-eyed — 
I remember there was a hint of blue, perhaps a 
hat or a coat, and then — then I felt the strange 
delight of a woman’s breath upon my face. 
God knows that it was strange to me, and that it 
was a delight. 

“ ‘ Why, Nuncie Jim ! Splendid ! ! I didn’t 
know you were home ! ! ! ’ 

“ It was all exclamation points over to the 
carriages, and on the way home, too, for that 
matter, except for this from Letty Gray, — 
‘“Nuncie, this is Mr. Davidson. Do you 
German savants include bunch in your vocabu- 
lary as she is technically used here?’ And 
Letty Gray tossed up her head, saucily, and 
screwed her eyelids down in an adorable way. 
‘ Well, Charlie belonged to our bunch in Florida, 
d hasn’t got sorted out yet.’ ” 


anb t^e ^toUftm 


III 

James Loraine, professor of Applied Chem- 
istry at the Utiiversity of M , had been 

sitting in a chair, in his rooms, and dreaming 
over the last twenty years of his life, in this 
familiar, intimate way. 

The clock struck five. At seven he was to 
be at his younger sister’s to attend a dinner 
given for Letty Gray, Mrs. Billy, Mr. Davidson 
and himself. 

He rose, stretched himself, and the top of his 
white head was just seventy-two inches from the 
floor. 

Before the glass he stood examining with 
anxious care as to what the sixty years had 
really done ; that is, as to what they had done, 
except to the hair. 

A pain shot across his breast, but, — well, no 
one could see that, and he nerved himself 
against it. 

Yes, the eyes were a bit farther in, but the 
wrinkles were not many. In fact one was so 
small that he stopped and tried to smooth it out. 

He had been shaved at ten, but really hg 
needed another one, and a massage, too, sin 
came to think of it. 


In the barber’s chair he considered the relative 
values of sixty years of accomplishment against 
thirty in which to accomplish. 

“Yes, life is all ahead of ‘Mister’ Davidson 
and it is mostly behind me. She called him 
‘ Charlie ’ very familiarly, but for me that damn 
‘nuncie’, I, like a sap-headed fool, taught her 
seventeen years ago, still, persistently remains. 

“Yet she kissed me — I’ll bet that ‘jarred’ the 
boy. That was old white-top’s round, all right”; 
and he slapped his leg in excited joy, and as a 
result he received an impression, which, while it 
lacked both depth and breadth, was exactly one 
and three-eighths inches long. 

“ Beg pardon, but you moved your head so 
suddenly, I could not help it, sir,” said the 
barber-man. 

At 7:05 the polyphonic tones of merriment 
ceased for one brief moment, and Letty Gray 
remarked, “ Kath, what’s the matter with Nunc? 
He said he was coming early. I have got that 
'ast Dutch song he sent me down to a fine 
Prince Charlie, over there, says it sounds 
re like a station porter giving a train-call than 
liebeslied; but — ” and she drew herself up 
in pretty, playful hauteur — “ what the Charlies 
of the world don’t know is a rather fair 
definition of divine knowledge.” 


anil tl)e profeiSi^ot 


Charlie, just like a frisky kid, had recourse to 
physical retaliation, and a pillow went flying 
across the room. 

At this juncture the host handed four tickets 
to one of the combatants, and said : 

“ For Jim and you, Letty Gray, and your two 
chaperones. (He winked at Mrs. Billy.) Kath 
and I will be a little late. The carriage will be 
here at 8:10 and we haven’t much time. I’ll 
telephone and see if Jim has started.” 

* * * 

It was ten minutes after the time for the 
commencement of the play, when a pass-key let 
several excited persons into “Nuncie Jim’s” room. 

The lights were burning brightly and things 
were littered about, but he was not there; at 
least — some one passed the foot of the bed 
and exclaimed, quickly, “Why, here he is ! ” 

Letty Gray’s faithful old sweetheart was 
kneeling on his left knee, and bending over a 
dress-suit case, and apparently leaning against 
the end of the bed. 

“ I guess it was 
ulant tones from the discoverer, as he looked 
up into the startled faces of the bystanders. 

Later, in the left pocket of his waistcoat, 
found a little square box, on the lid of 
was the imprint of a Berlin jewelry shop. 

JPoije Fwty-Thret 



4 



iFrom aPoUp tn aottft 


















iFrom a)oUp tn SDicft 


I 

"YJ" N the first place, I was provoked. Imagine 
one of your best customers, three hundred 
miles away, sending you a telegram the 
second day before Christmas which read : 

“ Must see you to-monow if you want the 
contract.” 

There was nothing to do but to go. It didn’t 
take long to close the deal, and eight o’clock 
on Christmas morning I was within twenty 
minutes of the station at home. 

Dear, delightful Christmas mornings ! 

Oh, it’s all right for you little ones to wake 
long before the darkness has gone and feel your 
way over to where the fattened stockings and 
the longed-for playthings lie. 

And it’s all right, too, for you older ones to 
early send some restless thoughts to mark a 
beaming face bend over your remembrance, 
and let others crowd around Love’s garden gate 
to catch the scent rosemarys blow, until the 
dawn begins to break. 

But that is not all beautiful reality when one 
floats back into consciousness on a Pullman 
pillow, as I did that morning at six. 

Page Forty-Seven 




iftom SDoII^ to SDick 





It was cold and Christmasy outside. 

I started half a dozen alluring dream-trips, but 
riiey were all spoiled by car-wheels. Those 
blamed things made an awful lot of noise, and 
they did revolve so exasperatingly seldom. We 
were actually seventeen minutes behind time. 

I might as well confess that I was hotly eager 
to get home, — to be candid, 1 was hoping to 
find when I reached there, the dearest Christmas 
present from the dearest girl that — well, you 
know what it means when a fellow duplicates 
his superlatives in this fashion, don’t you ? 

The sentry on my watch-tower — an impres- 
sionable sort of sentry I sometimes feared — had 
several times reported most enrapturing suspicions, 
but her present was to tell me all. 

Any shape taken by her thought of me had 
always been supremely satisfying, but this time it 
was to be the thought itself come out of its 
covert hiding. Tender, and free, and brave, I 
was expecting her to have sent me the first 
“yes” to a question my heart had long been 
asking, but which at the close of November was 
first framed into words in a letter I sent across 
the sea. 

Mr. and Mrs. Arthur P. MacHale and their 
daughter Dorothy were spending the winter in 
southern Italy. They lived in our town, and we 
were all good friends ; in fact, with Dolly and 


JPage Forty-Eight 


JFrom SDoIIp to SDtcfe 


myself friendship had for some time failed to fit 
the case. Ever since she returned from school, 
eighteen months before, she had occupied a 
considerable number of my thoughts. We 
somehow always went places together, and 
though the trend of our travels seemed to lie far 
up the approach to engagement, as I have just 
said that goal had not yet been reached. Our 
friends supposed the momentous words already 
passed, and some of them — the cooler-tempera- 
tured ones only, I believe — -even suggested that 
it was because of this the MacHale’s were con- 
vinced that a winter along the Mediterranean 
would produce beneficial results. 

But, pshaw ! I only smiled when such reports 
reached me. 




Page Forty-Nine 


SDoU? to SDick 


II 

The familiar bang of our old, massive oak 
door brought mother into the hall, and, after 
“Merry Christmas,” a kiss, and a few jolly 
moments, she said : 

“ Oh, yes, Richard, some letters and packages 
have been sent up to your room.” 

“Anything that looks specially good which 
came by mail?” queried I, with a twinkle in 
my eye which mother interpreted. 

She knew. 

“Well, something did come from across the 
water, and — ” 

When mother began “ across ” 1 started, and 
at “ water” I was half way up the stairs. 

On the bed in my room were various prom- 
ising envelopes and parcels, but I wanted the 
foreign one. Yes, it was Dolly’s writing, and 
a little box ! I was expecting a letter because 
1 had described what i wanted and asked to 
have that alone, as it was too great a gift to be 
associated with any mere man-made thing. 

The package was small and came by regis- 
tered express. “ Oh, it didn’t matter at all if she 


Page Fifty 


JFtom SDoUj? to SDlck 


insisted on sending something; probably it had 
been selected before my letter reached her ; and 
again, it might be some little trinket for my sis- 
ter.” Thoughts like these broke in upon me. 

In order to temtalize the pleasure in my soul 
I decided to save it for the last, and began to 
remove wrappers and open the pieces of mail. 

There were things good to have, and behind 
some lay sympathies which were always express- 
ing but which were too great for expression. 
The array was pleasant to view and served to 
key me up to the very limit of eagerness to know 
the contents of what remained. 

I broke somewhat slowly the seal on Dolly’s 
package, speculating as to the nature of its con- 
tents. While doing this I wondered if my ring 
was now glistening on the telltale finger, and 
what its owner was doing. “Let’s see, it’s 
afternoon there ! ” — and then I stopped and went 
off into Dago-land a-dreaming. 

When the box came out of its wrapping I 
observed the name printed on the lid, and 
instantly turned pale; it was the one in which 
I had sent the ring. However, it did not take 
me long to recover, and while laughing away the 
thought, I shuddered at its awfulness, exclaiming 
aloud, “This proves she got the ring all right, 
and 1 suppose the box just suited her purpose.” 

Page Fifty-One 




iFtom SDoII? to 2Dick 


No time was lost in uncovering it, and I found 
on top the letter I so dearly wanted. I lifted it 
to my lips and proceeded to take out the packing 
material. “My God ! ” This with an expression 
of anguish as I caught sight of the ring-case I 
had placed in it hut a few weeks before. 1 
pressed the spring and there the sparkling white 
eye of the golden circle I fancied on her finger 
looked straight into my face with its innocent, 
silent laughter. “ Poor dumb ring ! If you 
knew the pain you have put into my heart!” 

I locked the door of my room, and flinging 
myself across the bed I tried for an explanation; 
but a dazed feeling crept into my brain and I 
could not think. 

I lay there for some minutes. There was not 
the least curiosity to know what disclosure the 
letter would give. I cared not why we couldn’t 
walk together — it was enough to know that 
Dolly didn’t want me. A condemned man 
does not concern himself about the phraseology 
of his death sentence. 



JPage Fifty-JSito 


iftom 2DoU? to 2Dic& 


III 

It has been my custom for some time to take 
a carbon copy of the letters 1 send to my 
regular correspondents. I do it simply for the 
opportunity it gives whenever the spirit of the 
moment inclines me to roam in the thought- 
world of yesterday. 

It is not possible to express the mingled feel- 
ings with which I opened a drawer of my desk 
and drew out a pair of covers which contained 
the copies of my letters. Truly I was distressed 
by sharp, poignant heart-pangs. Thoughtful grief 
had not yet commenced to set upon me, for but 
ten minutes before her name and love were 
warm upon my lips. As 1 leafed the sheets 
back I tried to think of where in her letters there 
seemed to be even a slight abatement of the 
tender reciprocity I believed to exist. I could 
remember none; but perhaps I would not, 
or perhaps when I read them the intensity of 
my own love sending tears of joy into my eyes, 
blurred my vision when I seemed to see the 
love in hers. 

Page Fifty-Three 




JFtom SDoIIs to SDtcIt 


My last three letters were written at a time 
when my heart was in a gentle frenzy because 
of exquisite anticipations, and my finger was 
now lying upon the cold copy of the first of the 
three over which my hot breath blew while 1 
was writing. 



iptom 2DoU]> to SDtcit 


IV 

It was dated November 26th, and ran : 

Dear Little Girl : 

It Is eight o’clock and I am all alone in my snuggery — 
not quite alone, either, Dolly, because your Jenkms* 
party-dress picture is looking at me from the opposite 
wall, and on my desk is the one I snapped at the station 
the day you went away. But the dearest of all is when I 
shut my eyes and allow memory to select one of her own 
etchings, or when I permit my image-maker to send its 
sweeping brush across the canvas of the future. I have 
no regular time for dreaming since you left. 

Yet, with all, I am lonesome for you. Two months 
you are now gone and I don’t see how I am going to 
wait three more. 

In all of my letters to you I have “inked in” the 
thoughts as they tumbled down to my pen, but to-night 
as I sit here writing, with no sound breaking in upon 
my reflections except the icy protest of the street to the 
passing vehicle. I’d give worlds if I were near you and 
if I might only whisper to your ear my central thought, 
which is even now tottering on the very edge of 
expression. 


Page Fifty^Five 




JFtom 2Don? to SDtcft 


Here I broke off the theme abruptly. 1 dared 
not continue, although sweetest promptings kept 
scurrying through my brain that live-long day. 

The letter then picked its way out to con- 
clusion, touching on the various incidents of the 
several preceding days. This was written in 
my usual playful manner, though I must confess 
the draught was a bit forced. 



HEBE I BBOKE OFF THE THEME ABBUPTLY— 


Page Fifty-Six 


Hr-B I oS siie theme abruptly. I dared 
toctioue, although sweetest promptings kept 
through my brain that Eve-long day. 
The letter then picket! k* way out to con- 
» ?A-uon, touching on the varioifs irtcidenis of the 
sev.;ra) preceding days. This was written in 
jJiy usual playful manner, thoujdt 1 must confess 


rtife 








♦ 


♦ 




A 




;• ’ • I ■ ’ 




ifrom SDoIIp to SDfeft 


The next letter left on the following day and 
was as follows: 

Dear Dolly : 

For some lime there has been laid aside a little 
remembrance which I expected to send you for Christ- 
mas. ril tell you frankly that I was quite a month in 
making a selection, and, although the article pleases me 
immensely, 1 returned it to the store this afternoon and 
said that I would pick out somethmg else. After domg 
this I hurried out, excited from the consideration of what 
1 had done and what I anticipated doing. 

I walked somewhat aimlessly, going directly north on 
Mulgrove Street, and, as I grew calmer, sweet and 
serious thoughts took hold of my attention. Part of the 
lime they were across the river in Buena Vista on a 
stretch of empty ground. Do you remember the day 
when we were passing by and in a merry moment I 
called it “our lot**? While my mind lay dreaming here. 
Fancy — audacious Fancy — moved a cozy home into the 
scene. Oh, if — but not just now. 

Then there was spiritual flight into Italy, and I 
wondered if Mr. Robmson had yet returned to Paris. 
(For heaven*s sake, Dolly, don*t let him stay any longer ; 
you know his father is spending a great deal of money 
on him, and the boy has real talent for art.) 

And on, on I walked. 




page Fifty-Sevet\ 


iprom SDoII? to 2D(cS 


Before I realized it I was in front of Tellemonte’s Inn. 
I opened my watch and from habit I looked at the lid 
first. The face there told me I was at the mid-noon of 
love and the adjoining face marked the hour past six. 

I hesitated a moment. An idea came to me — then 
another. I seized both and entered the Inn, ascended 
the stairs and signaled to Charlie as I opened the door 
of the green room. 

“ Charlie,’* said I, when he appeared, “ I want a little 
lunch served here for two, and don’t want to be 
disturbed. My order is half-dozen fried, hashed brown 
potatoes, a salad of some kind, pickles and olives and 
coffee. Be lively now I ” 

“Do you want one pohtion served for two, Mistah 

F— ?’’ 

“Yes, that’s it; and remember I want to be alone.’’ 

He smiled curiously and I blurted out, “What the 
devil are you grinning at ? ’’ 

“Yes, sah,’’ he answered, and bowed himself gro- 
tesquely out. 

Do you recognize that order, Dolly, and do you 
recall the evening it was given ? Oh, I know you do — 
the smallest detail remains with me. There is no cheuige 
in the green room. “ Lord Lome ’’ and Gamsborough’s 
“ Honorable Mrs. Graham ’’ still glare at each other from 
opposite walls, and the old, warm, comfortable grate and 
the fantastic andirons — ha, ha ! I’ll wager they remind 
you of that discussion we had on 1’ art nouveau ! 

When the things were laid before me I told Charlie 
I’d ring when I wanted him. 

“And if the other gen’l’man — ’’ 

“ If he calls at the office and asks for me show him 
up. That’s all,’’ and he left. 


JFrom JDoIIp to SDtcli 


I looked across the table and saw you, and straightway 
did I re-enact, as far as I could, that perfect night in 
September. There I sat feeding my body with oysters, 
olives, et al., and a most important spiritual division of 
myself with memories of a face and voice that are now 
somewhere beneath the blue skies of Italy. 

Dearest little girl, how 1 thought and planned and 
feaued and hoped I — euid also ate I 

The gift I referred to before was to have gone to you 
about the 9th of next month, so it would be timely in its 
mute “ Merry Christmas.** — 

I can*t say another word, Dolly, only that the green- 
room lunch became most of all judicial toward the last, 
and before leaving I decided that the unselected Christ- 
mas present must start to-morrow on its journey. 



The carbon copy had grown quite indistinct 
and the several remaining lines were not 
recorded at all. 


Page Fifty-I^ne 



iftom SDolIs to SDick 


VI 


My hand trembled visibly as I flipped back 
the next sheet. My last words to Dolly were 
before me. 

I remembered so clearly the afternoon of 
November 28 th. I left the office at four, 
stopped in at Perryl’s for a package which was 
all ready for me, and came straight home. I sat 
down to my desk, and drew out a new pen, fixed 
it in the holder and kissed it as reverently as if it 
were some holy thing. 

With the little package resting in front of me 
I began to write : — 



My own dear Litde Girl : 

Will you allow me to place one other adjective before 
the “dear little girl** I have so many times addressed? 

It*s such a very little word, Dolly. 

I know it is perfectly awful of me to put it there and 
then ask you afterward if I may, but for a long time 
“own** has been trying to edge its way into my 
descriptions of you, and somehow it got m to-day and my 
heart doesn*t want it written any other way, any more. 

With this letter goes a little box containing an earnest 
of the sentiments I am trying to breathe into these lines. 

O Dolly! I must stop — for the thoughts which 
crowd around this poor willing pen and clamor for 
trauismission to you, come in bewildering numbers. And 

Page Sixty 


iftom SDoIIg to SDicfe 


then, sweetest of girls, my heart has been talking to your 
heart for many a long day, and I do not know of speech 
that can carry half so true. Months ago my colors 
were hauled down, and all this while the captive has 
patiently waited near the forge of Love, and is now 
listening hopefully for the clinking of the chains. Were I 
to receive from you, for Christmas, a letter — a Ime — a 
word telling me the ring I send you is around the finger 
1 tried so hard to measure that September night, it 
would be the second happiest day of my life. The 
happiest would then be for you to name — our wedding- 
day. 

And I beg of you, Dolly, to include nothing else with 
your letter. If you have intended to send me a gift, 
please delay it a few days, because this Christmas Day I 
would have just you from yourself. 

Nothing more can I say, yet I’ve asked for so much 
and said so little. 

And now, my own sweetheart, I will retire to the 
monastery of my soul and in sweetest contemplation shall 
I wait there for — ^you. 



At I kneel in the chapel of my heart 
A reverential fear floats in the air, 

And, trembling, utter 1 poor words of prayV, 

Lest some unworthy thought near thee should start. 
Before me, hewn in sweet exquisite art. 

Smiles my own dear sweetheart --a statue rare 
That glorifies a wall long empty, where 
God niched the hollow when he made the heart. 
But as I gaze, my love, grown over> wrought. 
Cannot keep from my cheeks the glow of bliss ; 
My tongue lifts up a restless cradled thought 
Which straightway asks for thee : and is’t amiss 
If while 1 kneel my lips thy lips have sought 
In spirit, for thy first love-laden kiss > 



Page Sixty-One 


ifcom 2DoUi> to SDtcfc 


VII 

That was the last word I wrote to Dorothy 
MacHale. And, knowing even the Kttle that 
you can know of my love for her, do you 
wonder if life seemed to hold hardly anything 
for me that Christmas morning? That the other 
ties which bound me to it had all but broken 
from the wrench that parted me from her ? 

You tell me 1 might have appealed to my 
reason, my common sense; that it was only 
another mistake, and that time and other interests 
always obliterate? 

Oh, I’m not sure about that. I only know 
how my heart felt that day and that it repelled 
any such considerations. Reason and common 
sense, say you? What balm in them to a heart 
in the agony of unrequited love ? 

You are not competent, lying in the cushions 
of a cozy corner, to analyze human affection 
as you would a decision in law or a Beethoven 
sonata. When a man’s heart has been lifted 
first by inches, then by yards, and then by miles 
into the limitless heights of love, what know 
you, darlings of the goddess or pilgrims who have 


Page Sixty- Two 


ifrom SDolIg to 2DtcS 


never reached her shrine, — what know you 
of the nature of the bruise, when in one little 
moment he is hurled back to where they have 
streets, and noises, and people who philosophize ! 

The striking of the clock below awakened 
me from saddest reveries. 

Ah, yes, it was Christmas ! I walked over 
and peered out into the street that lay beneath 
my window, and its gray, white cheerlessness 
gave me comfort. 

The bare-fingered trees, the stinging sheets and 
pendants of ice, the cold, crispy, whimsical snow, 
and the cutting blasts of the winter wind — they 
all looked so congenial and so companionable. 

I could not resist and 1 took my hat and 
hurriedly left the house. 


Page Sixty •Three 


Jftom SDolI)? to 2D(cl( 


VIII 



When 1 relumed, I entered by a rear door 
so as to go to my room unobserved. In the 
upper hall, I met my vivacious little sister, who 
put a bit of life into my dead soul, ending her 
merry exclamation with “Beat you — said it 
first!” 

“ Yes, you did,” I replied, “and we must have 
our Christmas kiss.” 

“Just wait a minute, Dick, you can’t guess 
whom I saw this morning — oh, yes, you can, 
too ! It was a girl.” 

“That ought to make it easy, Doxie, but 
unfortunately my guessing-machine is broke. 
Who was it?” 

“Oh, come now, you solemn old sphinx, 
you know the MacHales are home I ” 

“Great heavens! The MacHales? Well, 
what’s the joke, pet? You know very well I am 
not so easy as all that.” 

“ Dick, you can’t make me believe you don’t 
know it. Anyway, I met Dolly at church this 
morning and I’m tired lugging around a kiss 
she gave me and refusing any more until I could 


Page Sixty-Four 


JFtom SDoII? to SDtcIi 

turn a second-handed one over to you. Haven’t 
I a keen head, Dick?” 

You see they all knew about it. 

I couldn’t help laughing heartily at the way 
she expressed herself, although her pretty 
thoughtfulness gave me a piercing pain. 

“The MacHales home ! But perhaps there is 
no reason now for them to remain away,” I, 
silently repeated. 

“ Well, Dick, have I wasted all this energy ? 
You don’t appear so very anxious. I suppose 
you’ve seen her already, and getting a sizzling 
hot one right from the stove, you don’t want any 
old warmed-over affair.” 

“Doxie,” said I, with a somewhat active 
smile," you know that your kiss alone is always 
good enough for me (and then I thought of the 
ring in my desk), but if I am to take two of 
them aboard I’ll have to go inside and make 
some preparations.” 

With this 1 slipped into my room, leaving her 
staring perplexedly at the closing door. 


JPage Sixty^Five 


JFrom 2DoU; to 2Dtck 


IX 



Noiselessly I threw the bolt and went direct 
to my desk and drew out the box that contained 
the pieces of my heart. 

“ What did it mean? Dolly at home ! ’* 

I examined the wrapper. No, the box cer- 
tainly wasn’t mine returned by the Express 
Company ; and the letter — there was no mistake 
about that. A sudden determination of the 
family to return could have been caused by a 
number of things, and, as I thought it over, a 
trace of anger seemed to steal along by the side 
of the pain. 

If she were coming home, why send me a 
bitter Christmas? Why have sent it under any 
circumstances? 

My letter was certainly freighted with tender- 
est sentiments, and though I was presumptuous 
in expecting the great gift I asked for, yet that 
was no reason for her to fling my proffered love 
into my face, and to do it on Christmas Day. 
There must have been some purpose deeper 
than mere refusal. 


Page Sixty-Six 


iptom 2Don? to SDtcIt 


Suggestions pressed forward, some unkind, 
but I repelled the latter because I loved the girl 
too well to allow myself to believe them. 

“Perhaps some false report about me has 
reached her. Ah! the letter will tell that. 
Yes, I must read it and leam the truth.” 

I cut it open with one stroke of my knife. I 
wanted to know. I caught “ Villa Bandolini ” 
at the top as I straightened out the crumpled 
folds. The letter was longer than I expected. 
The reasons were set forth in infinite detail, was 
my unconsoling thought. 




Page Sixty-Seven 


Sttom 2DoU? to 2Dick 


X 

It read as follows: 

Dear Dick : 

Can you believe it? Three weeks ago father and 
mother began to realize that they had never before spent 
Christmas away from home, and a few hints were thrown 
out about returning. I protested emphatically. The 
next day came a letter saying grandma wasn’t feeling 
very well, although nothing serious was apprehended. 
This started home talk again, and I suggested a cable. 
The answer came, “ Grandmother well.” 

Christmas at St. Peter’s was now quite assured, we 
having planned to return for the holidays as the guests of 
the W — 8. Mr. Robinson was also invited to be their 
guest. [D — n Robinson ! this from me.] As the days 
went by 1 felt a little less heartened about a Christmas in 
Rome when I saw father and mother dearly wanted to 
go home. But it was finally decided that we were to 
remain. 

This morning Pietro put into my hands two letters and 
a package from you. 1 could not tell the order in which 
they were sent from the marks outside, and therefore I 
opened both letters and the read the earlier first. 

Honest, Dick, 1 was very trembly when 1 completed 
the second one, and 1 don’t remember how I opened the 
box. It was opened very quickly, though, and after 
absorbing as much of the contents as I could, I went 


JPage Sixty-Sight 


iprom jSDollp to SDick 


over to my pillow and sobbed and sobbed for oh, so 
long a time. Mother was below and father was away 
for the day. 

I crept softly down to her and said, “ Dearie, I believe 
we’d better go home,” — 

“Good God, is it possible!” I exclaimed, 
excitedly. Dropping the letter, I shot out of the 
room to the balustrade and called, “Doxie!” 

A voice from the first floor came back, “ She 
has gone in to Miss Ethel’s.” 

“ Won’t you please go in and tell her I want 
to see her on a matter of importance?” 

Wrought up nearly out of my wits, I returned 
to my desk and continued the letter. 



— and I broke down and told her all. Well, we are 
•going, and shall probably be home as soon as this 
reaches you. 

You dear big angel, I kissed the name on the bottom of 
your letter till I was literally wearing it on my mouth, and 
then my ink-stained lips visited the ring many, many times. 

For a man who has examined my hand so often, and 
who now asks me for it, you exhibit very little knowledge 
regarding the anatomy of the third finger. The beautiful 
ring you sent just passes my finger nail. 

I am sorry, Dick, I was not more submissive that dear 
September night, but how could I know why you 
wanted to measure it? 

Dearie suggested that m the hurry the stone was 
mounted on the wrong ring, and said she believed you 
would perhaps like to get it changed yourself, for Christ- 
mas. Isn’t she the sweetest, thoughtfulest mother m all 

POflfe Sixty-Nine 



iptom SDoIIp to SDfeli 


the world, Dick? — I mean along with your own love 
of a mother. 

Dearie’s idea was so sensible, and in order to make 
our — (O Dick, 1 can only breathe the word!) — strictly 
a Chrlstmcis exchange of hearts, I am sending one of my 
rings with yours for a pattern. This letter will reach you 
on the 23d or 24th, and if you will arrange to get a large 
enough lasso right away, you won’t have any trouble 
getting it euround a certain finger belonging to “ your ovm 
dear little girl ” — if you please. 

Provided we are not delayed, we shall reach New 
York on the 22d, and that will bring us home at least 
by the 24th. 

I don’t think, Dick, you will find this letter the orthodox 
kind, because packing up, thoughts of home and you, 
and the delightful threshold to which you have just led 
me, have set my bram a-going at a dizzy rate of speed. 

How often have I dreamed of the way I’d say “yes” 
to you when the time came, and of all the dear acci- 
dentals which would accompany it, and now that the 
darling moment has anived it seems so serious and so 
dreadfully solemn. 

Even m your beautiful sonnet you go in for a spiritual 
kiss, which isn’t at all the variety I associated with it. 
My first kiss was ink laden, but, O Dick, the second 
one! 

Aren’t you shocked at this ? 

Somehow, just here I’ve caught myself humming a 
dear old favorite of mine, and oh, how I linger upon the 
last words of the second stanza ! 



I’ll let you supply the words, Dick ! 


Page Sevenly 


jFtom SDoIIp to SDfcft 


If 1 write much longer, I cannot catch the next post. 
This letter doesn’t satisfy me a bit, dearest Dick, — it 
seems so patchy. 

But the more I write, the more I feel like it, and I 
beKeve after I should fill up thirty pages, perhaps then 
my pen might catch something of the swing of the 
passionate song which possesses my soul. But I must 
stop here. Let my last thought be tenderly laid in the 
sweet words of the young English poet over whose grave 
I cried a few weeks ago in Rome: 

** Dearest love, sweet home ol all my fears, 
and hopes, and joys.** 



Good-by till Christmas. 

Yours, every kind of way, but especially, 
lovingly, 


Dolly. 



Page SeverUy-One 


iptom SDoII? to 2Dicf( 


XI 



If you ever saw a man gloriously intoxicated, 
in all the bom days of your life you never saw 
one like me. Nearly all the effects of the 
liquid production were there except perhaps the 
hiccoughs. The destructive propensity was 
especially strong. I began to pick up things at 
random from my desk and throw them across 
the room, and I was just taking aim at the door- 
knob with Ik Marvel’s “ Reveries of a Bachelor” 
when a rap came with gentle violence. Opening 
it, Doxie burst in. 

“You little rascal,” cried I, “where’s my 
double kiss? While I was fixing my mouth, 
you ran off and left me here with a pair of very 
hungry lips.” 

“ Dick,” she replied, in a tender tone, “ what 
is the matter?” 

“ Matter ! ” I repeated, as I clasped her to 
my bosom. 

“Yes, Dick,” and seeing a quizzical look upon 
my face, she broke out into a merry laugh and 
continued, “for some reason I didn’t think you 
were very anxious for that proxy-kiss, so I took 
down the sign, ‘Kissing prohibited,’ and again 
opened up the premises to the public. Unfor- 


Page Seventy- Two 


iFtom SDoIIp to SDtcIt 


tunalely, Ethel has just given me one of her 
famous brand.” 

“ Doxie, you are the cleverest girl I ever met,” 
and I kissed her warmly. “ My ! that was fit 
for a god! Your kiss and Dolly’s rolled into 
one with Ethel’s for the dressing.” 

“ That fixes it all right, Dick ; you’re a phil- 
osopher if you are anything.” 

And she continued, “Dolly emd her father 
and mother got home at eight last night. There 
was a telephone call sometime about nine, and 
Mattie said a feminine voice inquired for you. 
You’d better run down now and ring her up.” 

“Oh, no, Doxie, I believe I’ll wait until after 
dinner.” 

“ Yes, on second thought I believe that would 
be better,” she drawlingly replied, her eyes 
lighting up at sight of something on my desk, 
“ and you will ring her at her own home, in 
your own way, won’t you, Dick ? ” 

I saw what had happened and fluttered the 
usual pink ensign in acknowledgment. That 
d — n infant’s ring had “butted in” once more. 

Doxie did not wait for a reply. 

“This makes me very happy, you dear old 
fellow,” and she came over and we tarried again 
at Love’s good old meeting-place. 




Page Seventy-Thre^. 


i^om SDoU? to SDtcIt 


XII 

At a quarter before twelve that night I was 
in my room again. 

Back from Dolly’s home to the old desk, 
where my timid love set down its earliest 
messages; where her love came to me and I, 
blunderingly, kept it waiting ; and where a little 
while before, I first felt that divinely strange 
new feeling — another heart-beat beating in my 
heart. 

The clock struck twelve. 



Seventy-Four 





.1 . , 



I^oetrp attU ILitt 



" ■ . ■ s' ' 
-''rV' i V. 




I 


*«■'/ I 

.* ^ • 

' i 




» 


t- 

f 

\ : 

»,'• 

•• ■' / 



-• / 




« 





k 


1 


V 1 



i&oetrp ani) 5>ife 


PROUXIUE 


“Poetry! Why that stuff is only fit for girls, 
and then not after they pass sixteen! It’s all 
right for the ‘ Fourth Reader * and nursery-hooks. 
The jingling lines help the kids to remember — 
a sort of trick — and that’s something. 

“ When grown-ups take to it, the men run to 
long hair, slender fingers, and five o’clock teas ; 
and if one of this brand should happen to s toid 
still in a moment of danger, it’s because his thin, 
pink blood freezes up, and he can’t run. 

“The women? ‘Bless ’em! I don’t like’^Sf^ 
be sarcastic, but it isn’t so bad for them ; yet 
they would be a lot better without the wishy- 
washy stuff. 

“One good thing about poetry is it’s d3dng 
out. Somebody was telling me the other day 
that editors can buy it by the foot at about the 
price of medium garden hose. I guess they buy 
a little of it to shape up their pages more than 
anything else.” 

Page Seventy-Mne 





Poctt? anti %itt 






This is an unedited running comment from a 
busy business-man as he looked up from the 
market reports in his paper, to interpolate his 


\ An unmarried woman of about forty, when 
asked for an expression, had this to say : 

“ Poetry makes life livable. It refines noises 
into melodies, and gives to the mind the glories 
of symmetry and color. It puts ease into the 
heart of pain, and lets aching feet forget the 
hurt in the very joy of walking in the highlands 
of thought. 

'* Poetry is the language of God — the poising 
element in the world. 

“Take great truths from out the mind or from 
the outer places, and spin into fine thought-webs 
their relations to life and to Immensity ; with these 
the ego fed by tipsy words wanders off into 
intellectual ecstasy. But with truth lifted rawly to 
the plane of thought and oft pierced through by 
ill-wrought directives, the thinking-self frequently 
lies distraught at the very dregs of things. 

“Poetry is religion. Name any one of the 
hundred clashing doctrines held by men, and 
poetry — for poetry is high philosophy ! — will 
subtly fit them for the dull mind-slave as well as 
for the luminary who stands erect upon the height. 




^otttv attn %iU 


“ I need to have no other creed to send me 
hence strong and reliant, because if I take all 
that is offered and give all that I can each step 
of the way, I am a student of God’s word, — 
Poetry, — and I can give the countersign at the 
Fortress which guards the mysterious Gray 
Lands Beyond.” 

And after this deliverance the woman reached 
over and picked out a well-wom volume from a 
crowded shelf. 


Here are the antipodes: the skimming busy 
fellow who doesn’t know the meaning of the 
word “ poetry,” much less what it comprehends, 
and with the cocksureness of his kind waves it 
away ; the other, a poor mind- warped thing 
is dreaming out her days saturated with a kind 
of mental opium. 

Poetry is a little toy which has been toss^SF^ 
down for us to play with: some like it better 
than science ; some not so well ; others not at all. 

If one plays too long with either he takes on 
touch of madness, and yet, if he play with neither 
he loses many of the healthy delights of life. 

In the kindergarten which lies before, the prin- 
cipal toy of the Players is poetry. Do they play 
overmuch, or well, or badly, the tale shall tell. 


Page Eighty- One 


anb fLitt 




I 


If one were to have dropped into Miss 
:on s home almost any Monday evening 
ire her engagement was announced, it is 

:ely he would have found the Trimurti upon 
the slopes of Parnassus, animatedly discussing a 
beautiful thought or thing. The Trimurti was 
Bessie Maxon, Robert Moulton, and Jack 
Worthington. 

These gatherings dated back to early post- 
tege times, and this evening, the one of the 
Trimurti’s dissolution, found Bob Moulton, the 
active cause of its breaking up, the only member 
who did not know that with the night’s close 
the old Tri would be no more. 

Bessie sat at the piano playing an air from 
Schubert ; Bob was looking intently toward her 
from a recess in the corner, and Jack lay with 
his hands behind his head, and his eyes appar- 
ently lost somewhere in the subdued red glow of 
a table-lamp. 

The movement being ended. Bob walked 
over to the piano and picked up a partially 
blown rose from a vase upon it, and said. 

Page Mghty-Two 




^otttn anti %iU 


"IVe an idea, Bessie, let me develop it.” 

He put the flower in her hair, and a careless 
nodding thing of red looked out from a depth of 
black. “There, now,” he continued, “won’t you 
play that again from the part which begins” — 
he hummed the notes. 

Miss Maxon started to make some laughing 
response, but Bob had resumed his seat and she 
began to play again as he requested. At the 
end she sustained a low d-flat very long, and 
after its tiniest vibration had died away she 
lifted her left hand and Bob remarked, 

“ Bessie, the verse which fits my thought just 
now is, ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’ ” 
And ever so little of the red of the rose stole 
down and around to her cheek. 

Bessie replied in a forced bantering tone, 

“That is a sweet-gloved ‘jolly,’ Bob, 
you ought not to send those things out in other 
people’s toggery, and especially such evei 
ones.” With this she rose and rustled through 
some pieces of music which lay in a pile 
the instrument. 

It wasn’t usual for Bessie to act or 
before a member of the Tri, and the graceful, 
sincere comment of Bob was not enough to 
cause it. She was worrying about Jack. 

Bob only knew that he knows,” she repeated t( 
herself. 



JPage Eighty- Three 


ana 3LiU 


They were unusually quiet; the crackling of 
the sheets of music seemed like loud noises to 
Bessie, and if she knew what she was looking 
for it did not seem so. 

Moulton spoke again. 

‘Jack, wake up over there! Bessie is criti- 
ig Keats’ poetry. I’ve just repeated his 
famous line, and she sneers at it. We 
^;^;^not going to stand for it, are we, old man?” 
Bessie turned quickly, and almost guiltily 
looked across at Jack. 

He was still among the Grecian lines which 
wound around the table-lamp. 

Bob continued, “I believe Jack has gone 
on Keats, too.” 

With this Worthington broke in as if he had 
not heard any of the previous conversation : 

“I was just thinking of the wonderful sug- 
gestive properties of certain vowel sounds. 
Has either of you ever followed it very closely ? ” 
Bessie said not a word, and Bob replied, 

‘‘ I don’t exactly get your meaning. Jack. ” 
“Well, for example,” Worthington explained, 
“ I get strong minor music in words which have 
the long ‘ u ’ and ‘ oo ’ sounds. 

“Take the word ‘moor.’ It is easy to ride 
out imaginatively on that weird, lonely word into 
dismal wastes of marshlands; beneath endless 
stretches of dull gray skies. 


Page JSigTUy-Four 


^otttv anti %iU 



“And another, ‘brood.’ See what pathetic 
harmonies are in it ! The word begins abruptly, 
the ‘r’ and ‘oo’ suggest long bitter thought, 
and the ‘ d,’ a sudden desperate end. 

“‘Dune!’ Don’t you get the sand-hill by 
the sea? I don’t hear the water so much as 
the wind drifting and swirling the sand into a 
heap. And so others might be taken, ‘ gloom,’ 
‘ soothe,’ ‘ mood,’ ‘ rune,’ ‘ tomb,’ ‘ swoon ’ — ” 

“ Oh, don’t give us any more. Jack,” Bessie 
pleaded. “Your little nocturnes have given me 
a kind of creepy feeling. Won’t you let them 
end in a ‘swoon’?” And she smiled, half- 
heartedly, at her play upon the word. 

“‘Swoon’ reminds me of Keats, again,” 
broke in Bob, “he ‘swooned’ rather 
the end of a line. Jack, I want to line-up 
heretic, here, and somehow or other the 
Englishman’s poesy is running in my 
to-night. Which do you really think are his 
strongest lines?” 

Worthington settled back into a deep 
and did not reply immediately. 

Bob whispered loudly over to Bessie, “ Jack 
astride of Pegasus on one of his long ‘u’ hunts.’ 

Bessie returned with a look in which 
was a mixture of sadness and resentment, 
she sighed helplessly to herself. “Bob 
know ! ” 


Page Eighty-Five 


ana %itt 



Jack answered, “ No, Bob, that isn’t it ; I was 
listening to some of Keats’ familiar melodies, 
and the one which seems to thrill me most at 
this moment contains these verses : 


**And there we slumber'd on the moss, 

And there 1 dreamed — Ah I woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dream*d 
On the cold hillside. 


**And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering. 

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake. 

And no birds sing." 

Bessie’s eyes met Jack’s entreatingly, and her 
gave a sad, expressive little toss, 
h spoke: “Jack, you are more orthodox 
to-night than usual. Personally, I don’t think the 
poem you quote from is typical of Keats — Keats 
the delineator of sensuous delights and passions ! 
What do you think, Bessie?’’ 

“Oh!” she smd, with an aching lilt in her 
voice, “ the poem Jack mentions is beautiful, but 
it’s so dreary and hopeless — let’s make for 
something sunnier.” 

Jack rose, pleaded an engagement in town, 
and left a few minutes later. 

An hour afterward Bessie’s answer slipped 
over to Bob in a kiss. 

“You see. Bob, 1 told Jack first — I told him 
it was to be you and me.” 

Page Eighty-Six 


anti %iU 


II 


Two years were gone. 

The days and weeks tip-toed away— stole so 
quietly off that Bob and Bessie sometimes 
wondered if their last kiss, which bore such 
sweet kinship to the first, was not really the 
first; and if the months that seemed to tell off the 
passage of time were not just a capricious frolic 
of Fancy, under the love-heavy lids which closed 
up>on their wedding day. 

Robert Moulton was in New York the fi 
week in April. He had been gone ten d^ 
when a telegram was put in Jack Worthington 
hand which read. 

Come on the eleven-forty to-ni^t. Will meet you 
Fenton’s. Very urgent If can’t come telephone 
there immediately. F. L. S. 

His thoughts flew to find a cause for tl 
message. 

“ Something’s the matter with Bob 1 ” 

He called Bessie on the telephone. 

“Bob back, yet?” 



Page EigMy~8even 


Pottrp atm %iU 


“ No, Jack, but in a telegram I received to- 
day he expected to wire to-morrow when he 
would leave. He did not intend to be away 
more than three or four days.” 

“Well, you know, Bessie, the poor fellow 
*t accomplish as much as an average man 
v^en he is away from home. Let’s see ; smoke 
‘f^r him and a letter for you after each meal, 
"and telegrams — ” 

“Jack, you know too many family secrets. 
But, seriously, I did get the usual number of 
letters for five days, and ever since he has been 
wiring me deiily. Whatever is causing it, the 

»r boy isn’t enjoying the delay any more than 

*♦ 

am. 

* * * 

“ What drove him to it, Stanton?” 

Worthington and he were standing in the 
lobby of The Fenton. 

“For God’s sake. Jack, let’s not bother about 
that, but let us sober him up. I’ve tried for four 
days and can’t do a thing. He is simply mad 
for whiskey. Thinking something might be 
accomplished, I slept with him last night, and 
this morning, in an attempt to make him realize 
his condition, he peremptorily ordered me to leave 
the room, and be d — d.” 


Page Eighty-Eight 


^ottw ana JLife 


Jack straightened him out — he hardly knew 
how — and they went home together the follow- 
ing day. 

Bessie did not learn what had actually 
occurred or that the telegrams were only a 
ruse of Fred Stanton to keep the truth from her. 

One evening at about eight, full two months 
afterward, this note came to Worthington : 

Dear Jack: 

Will you come down immediately ? Please do. It’s 
very important to Bob and me. BESSIE. 


“Jack” said Bessie upon his arrival, “Bob is 
intoxicated.” 

Tears gathered in her eyes as she contii 

“ It was midnight when he came home. The 
way he acted I mistook for a playful prank, and 
when I went over to kiss him in the 
lighted room, the terrible reality came to me. 
You certainly know. Jack, I am not telling 
this out of mere weakness, or for s)mipathy 
it’s this : we must stand by Bob. I will try 
help him, here, — will you help him, away? 

Jack nodded his head slowly, thoughtfully. 

“As you know. Bob does not drink. He 
often told me he couldn’t. This is just — an 
accident.” And she put her handkerchief to her 
eyes, because the tears were leaving them now. 





:page Eighty-Nine 


anti %itt 




“Yes, Bessie, that’s it,” was the cheery 
reply; “he has just slipped. It will be all 
right.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind this slip — that is, not so 
very much, but I was thinking about New York, 
^ou know, don’t you. Jack?” 

“He told me nothing about it, Bessie. 
'Cere’s Bob now?” 

“ He went out a little while ago ; just before I 
sent the note. He said he had to. Will you, 
perhaps, begin helping to-night. Jack? God 
keep him!” And Bessie gave Worthington’s 
hand a tight little squeeze, while reliant optimism 
ked out from her face. 


Page Ninety 


arrt JLite 


HI 


The Season-maker shook off the red leaves 
from the crispy tops of trees and sent a keen 
wind to sweep them all away ; while earlier and 
earlier, each day, he turned the Great Lamp out. 
Other swifter and colder winds came, and 
later on the snow was sifted here and there on 
the stark, barren ground. 

This continued until his fickle humor changed 
ageun. He was up betimes of mornings with 
fights up, and a warm, genial breath ; and' 
fields and the trees put on the livery of fife. 

Another change, and still another; andjt 
was November again. 

With the Moultons it had been a year of 
human fife. Ideals, art, passion, love, and ego 
dreamed and sung and fought the hours away.f 

During their progress, said Mrs. Moulton to 
Jack Worthington, one day: 

“Is there anything. Jack, we are leaving 
undone? Bob is so sincere and so strong, at 
times, in resisting that it seems we don’t help him 
the right way or at the right time. Are we 
doing all we can?” 





Page Ninety-One 


Poetry airt %iU 


And in the early autumn, one evening, Moulton 
turned to his friend : 

“Old man, what am I to do? The one 
thing that grows upon me, as the days drag 
42 -~..themselves away, is the expanding greatness of 
Bessie’s love. This hellish thirst is developing 
"if in a most damnable manner, by constantly 
^^^demanding more and more from her. And she 
always has — to give, and she always gives so 
freely. That’s the pity of it. Jack! I who can 
feast upon her lightest smile am put in the position 
of compelling her to pour out great heartfuls of 
p recious gold. How much finer like in the past, 
to feel, to be certain that there are quantities of 
ore still unmined, and to have no capacity for 
anything except whatever might be gleaming on 
the surface. She will bring out a Latin poet, or 
Tennyson, Crane on Design, studies in this and 
that, or perhaps a modem novel. Some days 
will be partially filled by drives, or out-door 
sports ; anything of the many things the girl can 
do. She will talk cleverly on all the old 
subjects, but. Jack, her heart is mostly out of it 
and fretting about me, and I — poor devil! — I 
am always brooding upon the awful finale that 
is just a little ways ahead.” 

Jack did his level best, but there was hardly 
anything that he could do. He saw that Bob 
was taken home the moment stupor came — he 


Fage Mnety-Two 


anb fiitt 



dared not try before. That was about all. It 
was a situation in which talking did no good; 
argument or advice would but intensify. 

But the end had to come. 

It was late — that is, it was two in the morn- 
ing — a cold November morning. The ominous 
roll that Bessie knew so well stopped at the gate. 
Two forms straggled to the door, and one 
returned to the cab. 

Bob was in a very bad way and Bessie feared 
to take him to his room. The davenport being 
convenient she helped him to it, and with 
scarcely an utterance he lay back, fast asleep. 
After making it warm and comfortable, she 
passed her hand idly over his unshaven face and 
pushed back the unkempt hair that had fallen 
over his forehead. Then she sat 
and rested her head upon her arm against 
mahogany end, and memory took the bitter- 
ness away for a little while. 

Ah, the jump of heart, as it stole back among 
the earlier days of their marriage! There — 
were the boys and girls who romped, 
thought, and talked ; and there — were the 
informalities that filled so many dear old hours. 
Farther back lay the days of theTrimurti — Bob, 
and Jack, and Bessie. She thought of the day 
it dissolved and of the poem of Keats 




Page Ninety-Three 



anti %ift 


Jack had quoted ; and then so deftly were these 
words laid upon her tongue : 

And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering. 

Though the sedge is wither*d from the lake. 

And no birds sing. 

‘O God, how true!” she muttered, as she 
her head and looked at Bob who groaned 
raved, intermittently. “La Belle Dame 
Sans Merci,” and she bitterly smiled as she 
thought of the title of the poem. 

At Bob’s last lapse she fully determined what 
she would do the next time. She did not tell 
hittr because it would look too much like a 
eat, and she knew if he could not give up out 
of love for her, there was no stronger human 
motive. 

She rose and went over to a desk, and turned 
on an electric light and began to write : 

Dear Bob: 

I am going on a visit to mama — a long 
visit. 

It is 2: 30 a. m. You are lying over on the 
davenport muttering, “ O hell I ” “ Break 

another bottle, Jimmy I ” and an endless gabble 
of incoherencies, as 1 sit here and coldly write, 
with tearless eyes and love-dry heart. 


Page Ninety-Four 


taoett^ anti %itt 


It’s all over. And the lack of turmoil in my 
soul as I put the words down shows how 
utterly it is over. I will not dwell upon the 
past nor upon the present; we know all and 
there are no others to know. The situation 
proves two things which I once believed 
impossible; the one, that a glass of whiskey, a 
mere animal tickler, would find preferment in 
you before me — ^your dearest friend, your sweet- 
heart, your wife; and the other, that anything, 
especially so trivial a thing as that same glass of 
whiskey, could extinguish the divine lire which 
burned for you — for you alone — within my 
heart. 

1 don’t explain either. 1 state facts that are. 
It may be my love was not so great as I thought, 
or, if great, that it ought to willingly suffer ’ 
stings of mere temporalities, the hurts of common 
frailties, but — this is idle scribbling! — wherefores 
will not call back a departed soul to its bo^T* 

Your mind — God bless it! — is a good and 
great mind. Bob, and yours is an artist-soul. 
With these there are other heights to climb 
other worlds in which to dwell. Our little part 
of a journey has hastened the spiritual currents 
in two lives — and, perhaps, that is something. 

May it not be for us now to dip deep into 
our souls and write across the wide gray skies 
of other men, little brightening stories out of a 


Page Ninety-Five 


^ottvv anil %ife 


love that was ; to give a warning to them who 
love as we loved, to guard their glorious possess- 
ion with every kind of guard and to post 
sentinels far out, to tell of approaching dangers? 

Yes, I nearly forgot The house, and the 
things — the play-blocks of two little play-fellows. 

k^doesn’t matter what you do with them. Bob ; 
bwer just throw them away, for *tis sad to 
<;;;^came upon sweet little things in dust-covered 
garrets, and mark the gnawed corners and the 
battered faces, and then turn expecting to see 
the bright eyes which played beside them long 
before. 

I leave at nine o’clock. I can’t say another 
rd. ril write Wednesday. 

Bessie. 


Page Ninety-Six 


^otttv ann %ite 


IV 


They had been separated ten months. 
Robert Moulton wrote regularly to his wife, and 
occasionally he heard from her. This was his 
last letter — just sent : 



Dear Far-away Love : 

Last night while writing upon your escritoire, 
I picked up an announcement which reads, “ The 
Erato Society has the honor to announce that 
the quinquennial prize originated by Marshall 
Granville, M.E.S., for the best poem to be 
submitted, in accordance with the governing 
rules, will be awarded, etc.” 

While reading it my mind fell back five 
to the time the dear old Tri was very 
interested in the same contest. 1 
particularly well the evening the Announcements 
came to us. You had just gotten home from 
abroad, and were in raptures over this idea f 
encouraging good poetry. We all agreed, 
you, and I, to participate, and no one was to 
know about the subject, or the actual production 
of the others unless the prize-winner was among 
us. And you said certainly one of us 
would win. In fact, it was going to be 




Page Ninety-Seven 


tdoetti? anb fLitt 



iFully exciting, and we — the boys — were as 
enthusiastic as you. 

Dearest, it was another delicious yesterday, 
and it charmed me for an hour. Under the 
impulse of the moment I wrote these lines upon 
leaf of the Announcement : 

Yesterdays 
J Memory U a truant knave who recks not to 
jburst in upon to-day with long-flown scenes 
and dear old faces, and while thus teasing back 
old happinesses into our souls, he abruptly 
dissolves them all away and does not even 
scorn to break in twain a word of love part-issued 
from our lips. 

And when we wake, alas I we find that we were 
but feasting on the fragment of a dream. 

God ! ” I cried, after the lines were writ- 
ten, " will there be no to-days, no to-morrows ? ” 
I plead with you, Bessie, that you put the 
star of hope back into the sky, and though the 
to-morrow be years away, I shall find the misery 
of to-day sweet to bear, if heaven can but send 
its faintest twinkle down to me. 

You wrote me long ago — ^your last letter — 
that you wondered how I could plead the cause 
of my love so eloquently, and then deliberately 
give it the lie by preferring the “ exhilarating touch 
of a favorite liqueur.” 

Bessie, there are human limitations and 
human mysteries: we knock our poor heads 


Pagt Ninety-Eight 


airt mu 


against the one; we rack them in vain before 
the other. 

Months and months ago was my first beastly 
fall, and five weeks ago yesterday was the last. 
I felt after the first, as I now feel after the last — 
a sense of pitiful degradation. 

I am disgusted and ashamed of myself, and 
so sensitive am I to the enormity of the passion 
and its personal cost that I feel like striking the 
kindly-intentioned man who comes up to me 
when I am normal and says, 

“ Bob, you ought to give up drinking ; con- 
sider the disgrace, etc.” 

My God! Don’t I know all that better 
than any one else, and am I not consciously 
suffering it? And beyond and above all, has it 
not driven you away? 

Jack and you know this because neither o 
you has ever wounded my sensibilities or 
belittled my intellect. 

My love for you, dear girl, has no relation to 
these periodic cravings. Each is a great existing 
fact ; one good, one evil. 

I love you for many sensible reasons, 
but most of all because I can’t help it. I 
drink for no sensible reason, but entirely 
because I cannot help it. When the devilish 
thirst is there my fingers tingle for the clutch 
of the glass. 


Page Ninety-Nine 


Lore, 


aim Hitt 


I feel as I write this that you do not believe 
in its argument, and that you hold 1 ought to 
suffer this thirst as I would suffer any bodily 
pain. 

You do not allow for the poor humanity of 
man, and the limits which heredity, training, and 
"indulgence put upon his abilities. Nor do you 
allow for the instinctive inclination to avoid 
_^)hysical pain when that is possible. I could 
"^^dure the amputation of an arm, if necessary, 
because there would be no escape. I could 
bear the biting of the thirst for spirits when it 
comes if there were none to drink, or if I were 
locked in a prison cell. But free to act, I 
what I am — that is, a victim of existing 
ditions; of conditions which I only partially 
caused and with which I have absolutely no 
sympathy. 

We do not argue with the cripple, Bessie, 
about his misfortune, though he be entirely 
responsible for it ; his condition rather quickens 
our love. And, oh, your love, Bessie! why 
does it treat me differently ? Come to me, I beg 
of you, sweetheart, and bring comfort to this 
wreck of a man who would kiss the very 
sands upon which you walk. Put a word 
of tenderness into a line and send it to me 
soon. 

Bob. 


Page One Hundred 


anb %iu 


Weeks later came the following letter: 



Dear Bob : 

I read to-day that you had been selected as 
one of the final judges of the approved poems 
for the Granville prize. This is a well-bestowed 
honor. 

I remember clearly, five years ago, during the 
last contest, and the evening to which you referred. 
All of us competed as we afterward acknowl- 
edged ; nevertheless no poem was good enough 
to reach The Erato Society’s standard, and there 
was no prize given. Wasn’t that the way of it? 

Your lines entitled “Yesterdays” are splendid. 

Bob, let us not bring up the other matter. 
Let’s keep memory out of the graveyard, 
distress ourselves by ghosts that walk in the mists 
of other days, and by irritating whys and where- 
fores. 

As you say, I may be wrong, but I believe 
that will, coupled with understanding, can as 
keep liquor from a liquor-itching throat for 
sake of love, as it can keep an itching 
from another man’s pocket for the sake of honor. 
And I do not speak of other motives which lie 
beyond the stars. 

I hope you are well. Bob. 

Won’t you run over to S sometime 

soon? Bessie. 


Pape One Hundred and One 


Poctcp ann JLitt 


j 

\^;-^_^)When Marshall Granville, M.E.S., established 
his famous prize for the best original poem 
offered in competition, it was believed that 
nothing which could contribute to the success of 
merit alone had been overlooked. 

There were two examining boards ; the one 
-kno3vn as the Selective Committee passed 
f— ^TSitically upon all the elements which comprise 
poetry, and manuscripts which did not reach the 
Society’s standards were rejected by this com- 
mittee. 

To the Critiques Supeneurs were given the 
acceptable poems, if there were any, (during the 
preceding competition there were none,) and 
this Board, dealing with all poetic excellencies, 
was expected to give its judgment at one sitting, 
if that were at all possible ; and with the artist’s 
perceptive faculties rather than the prosodist’s. 

More than an hour after the appointed time 
for the meeting of the Artists’ Board — as the 
Critiques Superieurs was called — Mr. Moulton 
was still absent. 


Page One Hundred and Two 


^otttv anil %itt 


Mrs. Winifred Morgan and Mr. Eldward 
Jenkins were proceeding with their task. There 
were two poems for them to consider. 

After very careful deliberation Mrs. Morgan 
announced her preference for “ The Quest of a 
Soul” ; Mr. Jenkins selected the other one. 

In the midst of a discussion which followed, 
Robert Moulton arrived. 

By those who knew him intimately, it would 
have been easy to see that something was wrong ; 
but his apologies for tardiness dispelled all 
thoughts from the other two present except the 
all-important one — the selection of the successful 
contestant. 

Mr. Jenkins spoke. 

“As comparative observations are not s] 
conducive to personal artistic judgment, we have^ 
not indulged in them, and the Board’s 
is now only waiting on your preference.' 

Mr. Moulton accepted the manuscripts with 
the exclamatory remark, “Two poems only! 
and he sat down and proceeded to rea< 
them. He seemed to be keyed to impulsive 
thought and action, and after some superficial 
examination he handed the poem entitled 
“The Quest of a Soul” to Mrs. Morgan, 
saying, 

“ May I ask you, Mrs. Morgan, to read this 
poem through for me? I believe I can catch 





Page One Hundred and Three 


Pojtrp anil JLiU 


the thought and harmonies better. My eyes 
pain me to-day.” 

She read the poem with care, while Bob rested 
his head upon his arm, and closed his eyes. 
As the reading progressed his face exhibited a 
succession of emotions, and toward the end it 
^siimed an indignant expression. 

^;^_,^When Mrs. Morgan concluded the poem she 
looked up, and Moulton asked her if she would 
not kindly repeat the last two divisions. This 
was willingly assented to, but after a short rest, 
during which no word was spoken, Mrs. 
Morgan suggested that she repeat the entire 

“ If you please,” Mr. Moulton replied. 

The poem was read once more with finished 
art and Moulton accepted it from her, perused it 
himself, then rising cast it upon the table with 
surprising vehemence and said : 

“Art will ever have its debasers in splenetic 
outbursts by would-be doctrinaires and pessi- 
mists. I hold to sanity above everything else in 
any expression of art. I believe the thought, the 
doctrine, the message should be sound. This 
poem is based upon false premises ; it condemns 
the only human product we have that touches 
divinity in its scorn for limitations. 

“We have a magnificent body, but it is mere 
mechanism ; an invisible germ, or a fallen brick 


Paore One Hundred and I'our 


anti %iU 


will force it to a hospital for repairs, and a 
leaden ball will send it to a mouldering 
grave. 

“ The human mind is chained by disorders of 
the body, and is confined within prison walls of 
inability, bias, heredity, and ignorance. 

“ Human love — ah, there is the divine in man I 
it is the one illimitable thing which belongs to 
him. It has contempt for its accidental frame of 
clay and for the mind — why, the scholar may 
love the sweet, pure, peasant girl. 

“And yet this fool, this damn — oh, I beg 
your pardon. Madam ! — this mere rhythmic 
babbler tells us there are no magnificent sweeps 
of soul; no loves for love’s sake. Because, 
perchance, there are those who miss it, or 
lose it in the effort to escape pain, — that which 
is but sent to glorify, — why condemn all to 
baser states of fleshly fire, sympathy of mind, or 
mere personal comfort ! ” 

And then he stopped quite abruptly, and 
passing one hand slowly over his eyes, said wil 
bitterness though with an attempt at good 
humor, 

“ Please excuse this unseemly outburst — 
it was certainly spontaneous ; and I believe this 
higher court is to bring its spontaneous, artistic 
judgment to what a more restrictive system of! 
appraisement has already pronounced upon. 



page One Hundred and Five 


^otttv anti %iit 



Perhaps Mr. Jenkins will not object to reading 
the other poem?” 

It was read twice, carefully, by that gentleman 
and then handed to Mr. Moulton for personal 
study. 

^ At the conclusion of the session this memo- 
randum was prepared for the president of The 
Erato Society: 

A majority of the undersigned expresses its choice 
for the Marshall Granville Prize to be the poem entitled 
“A Night in the Desert.” 

Winifred Lee Morgan, 
Robert Moulton, 
Edward T. Jenkins. 

That night Robert Moulton careened again. 
He went to the maddest limits of a frightful 
debauchery and it was full three weeks before 
his sad, pale face was seen at the old rosewood 
desk. 


Page One JSundred and Six 


and %iU 


VI 


Lying upon the desk, Moulton found this 
note from the president of The Erato Society: 


My dear Mr. Moulton : 

The Erato Society is deeply appreciative of the 
artistic services you rendered on the occasion of awardmg 
the Grauiville prize. 

I thought it would please you to have for your 
personal use, in advance of publication, a galley proof of 
the successful poem, “A Night in the Desert.” 

A copy of that smgularly beautiful and strong poem, 
“The Qyest of a Soul” is also included. The namesi^ 
the authors, you will understand, I must withhold. 

Gratefully yours, 

Wendall 

After dispatching some pressing work, a few 
hours later Bob picked up the poems and rea< 
each of them with deliberate care. 

His nimble fancy and quivering sense of 
poesy, trued by hard realities and good judgment, 
gave him an hour of fine delight and torturing 
anguish. 

After reading one poem for the third time, L 
swung his chair around, and said, as if speakinj 
to the bust which stood upon a console. 



Page One Hundred and Seven 


^otttv airt %iU 



“Moulton, besides being a drunkard and a 
home-wrecker, you are a robber.” 

He sat, silently, for another hour, then rose 
and in a dazed manner exclaimed : 

“That’s it! I haven’t fought! My love for 
Bessie has not faltered in the dreary days of 
Separation, but it has been a cowardly love in 
^^^the thick of the fight. Strong enough to suffer 
martyrdom, yet it stopped and stroked the vicious 
cur who made it bleed, instead of kicking it 
away.” 

On the second evening after the day of Moul- 
ton’s awakening. President Davies received the 
owing note : 

Dear Mr. Davies : 

This is very confidential and personal, and God alone 
knows how humiliating it is to write it. 

When I assisted at the meeting of the Artists* Board, 
I was somewhat unbalanced; to speak frankly, I had 
been drinking excessively, and my fevered bram con- 
demned the poem that I now hasten to acknowledge is, 
in my opinion, more worthy than the one selected. My 
normal, sane judgment is m favor of “ The Qyest of a 
Soul.’* 

As mine was the deciding vote, I feel that I have 
robbed the author of the prize, and I write to see if 
justice can yet be done, some way, even though I must 
suffer for it by a public expiation. 

Your note, enclosing copies of the poems, which I 
appreciate very much, was opened by me only to-day. 


I*age One Hundred and Eight 


Poetry anb %ite 


1 should have taken the tram immediately, but felt 
unequal to it. Please let me know what can be done 
and I will go to see you at once. 


The reply to this stated that it was too late to 
do anything, and, besides, it would not be 
possible to change the decision of the Board, 
which had been regularly reached at one meet- 
ing, and in accordance with the prescribed 
rules ; that Mr. Moulton must be laboring under 
undue disturbance, as one other member agreed 
with his first decision ; his associates had 
not questioned his competency at the time, 
or they would have been bound to mention it; 
that the information contained in Mr. Moulton’s 
letter would be held sacred, and it did him credit 
to volunteer it 


POflre One JIundred and Mne 


an6 %iU 




VII 

[y after these incidents took place, Mrs. 
Moulton received two important pieces 
One was a letter and the other was 
“The Eratian Book of Letters" containing the 
prize poem. 

It was exquisitely gotten up, was the last 
number of the “ Book of Letters.” On a con- 
page reference was made to the prize 
ablished by Marshall Granville, M.E.S., in 
1 890, to be given every five years for the best, 
superior poem offered in competition, under 
certain conditions. The statement was made 
that there had been three awards — during the 
year of its inception, in 1895, and at the 
present moment. 

A sketch of the winner of the prize followed, 
and on the adjoining page appeared the first 
stanzas of the poem itself, “A Night in the 
Desert.” 

In that part of the book devoted to what may 
be called editorial comment was the following 
statement : 

Page One Hundred and Ten 




^otttn anH %iU 


“Among the poems submitted, while the recent 
contest was pending, was one of notable strength 
and beauty entitled, ‘The Quest of a Soul.’ 
The author is anonymous. In the envelope 
which was supposed to contain the name of 
the contributor was this note: 

The author waives all rights to the poem, “The Quest 
of a Soul,” and would feel honored if it were found 
worthy of publication in the “ Book of Letters.” As the 
contributor’s name is respectfully withheld the poem is, of 
course, not offered for the Granville prize. 

“Later, a member of the Society personally 
guaranteed the originality of the poem, and there- 
fore not only is there no objection, but the 
publishers frankly express their pleasure in being 
permitted to stand sponsor for such an exce llent — 
composition.” 

The poem is given as it appeared. 


Page One Hundred and Eleven 


THE QUEST OF A SOUL 


OSle night I knelt me down to pray the prayV 
^Wnich leaps to voice when woman’s soul is stirred 
<Q*By life’ s sweet mystery. I knelt out in 

The open where God’s stars were, and where 
sounds 

Of running waters, wind-made murmurs caught 
The scattered cries of sleepless life. With these 
In the awful hush of night did I kneel 
■o ask for light — to know if breaking mom 
Should e’er find me companioned on the way. 
And to the task was brought my woman’s heart 
And woman’s mind, that they might simply teach 
Me tmth of him — serene — my lord and god ! 

“ Ah, me,” I murmured, “ what can maiden do 
When that swift burst of soul which is at once 
Her reckoning and blind-eyed deathless tmst 
Brings close to her the pain of solitude. 

And she, with far-trained ear, listeneth in vain?” 
Again my wandered thoughts went up to Him, 
And from that mystic night there came command. 
Both sweet and firm, to send my spirit forth — 
And forth my spirit went upon the quest. 


Page One Hundred and Twelve 


Potttg anti %iU 


In midst of throbbing life I found myself 
Hard by the side of one who thought and dreamed. 
Together turned we pages o’er, and sped 
With joyance in and out among the flower’d 
And fruited lands of thought. He took apart 
Some word-set pearl and held it up to me ; 

And I, admiring, dreamt his dream and gained 
His compliment by lett’ring it anew. 

Then to the solid fixities came we; 

To philosophies, new-lit lights on truth. — 

A book lay open with an ancient king 
Upon his throne; we fell to telling each 
How great and mad he was; and then we spoke 
Of Pow’r, of where it was, and what it was. 
Our humor took us to his chamber wall 
Where ran a flow of graceful curve and for gur- 
We dallied on some fascinating line 
And stopped to warm us in some magic hue. 
Till eyes grew weary — ah, but gently so ! 

I moved apart and sat me down to play 
A sweet old instrument. And then came flight 
Of mind which put my soul in drowning depth 
Of melody; saw his move out to share 
With mine ; felt both sail blissfully along. 

I waked. The weariness had come again. 

I would my head could find some hollow place 
To rest it, and I looked across at him — 

And he? His gaze was locked in distant space 


Page One Hundred and Thirteen 



anH %itt 

His soul still tossed upon that sea of song, 

While mine in pain lay shipwrecked on the shore. — 
My woman’s heart looked up in mute appeal 
And bade my spirit-self be on its way. 



old languorous garden the air 
* tremulant with music ; the sun’s rays 
iCj^tessed heavy on the lids of sleepy flowers 
And lay yellowing and bright on grass-marged 
Pathways ; these gently dipped to cool retreats 
Where fretting rills slipped murmuringly by, 

And shade of generous and well-leafed boughs 
Gave cool refreshment. To this place came I. 

not how, from where, nor when he came, 
what the word which broke us into speech ; 
But this 1 know : I felt his mastery. 

An hour stole soft away, and yet an hour; 

And thus did he speak; “The sea for the shore. 
The sun for the day, death for the weary. 

And thou for me.” This, while my woman’s heart 
Was hotly throbbing in my breast. The soft 
And subtle words fell sweet into my soul ; 
There, too, burned his amorous fire of eyes ; 
And when, by merest accident, his hand — 

So strong and gentle — ^touched my little one. 
Some 5 aelding word leaped thrillingly along. 

My heart had fashioned for his eager ear 


Page One Hundred and Fourteen 


^oettv atrt %ite 


This message : “ Thou, my god, my all, take me 

Forever more ! ” but ere tongue could tell 
My woman’s mind bent down and whispered to 
Its sister heart : and, horror-struck, I rose. 

And swift my spirit hastened from the place. 


A boat was moving smoothly o’er a lake 
Which lay within the careful guarding clasp 
Of knobs of land, extending shores ; and clasp 
Of greenwood barriers that rose to give 
Protection from the hot high sun which now 
Was tending downward. Into Nature’s arms. 

Thus curved, drew slow the drifting boat with him 
In speech, and sitting grandly by my side. 

“ — And after I’ve broke these clinging fetters. 

The chains of growth and youth — developmeni — 

I’ll rise to places of power where soul 
Will be free to think, and work, and love; whe®:^ 
I can do great things and kind things for man. 
Would you know my inmost passion?” and then 
My heart fluttered wond’ringly in my ear. 

“ It is to be the ray of hope for him 
Sodden in despair, the friend of oppressed. 

The scourge of hating, the bread of the poor.” 

My woman’s heart had slowed its beating now, 

But keen my woman’s mind was in pursuit. 

“And I would have my brother see in me 


Page One Hundred and Fifteen 


anil JLiU 



His saviour — his friend.” And here his voice went 
Far off to join his dream on phantom heights. 
And when his fancies waned, he turned to me, 

“ I feel the need of woman’s soft-toned voice 
To soothe away the vexities of life, — ” 

I met the false tenderness he would put 
his glowing face with heart and mind 
eager to feed upon the rage that 
SKi^ed within my soul ; yet I could but say, 
■^"^HThe hour grows very late — we must away.” 


I did not know about the crowded mart 
Until a pilot came and led me where 
id the awful grinding of its car; 

The clanging clatter mixed with human cries. 
There saw I faces fixed in joy and pain ; 

Heard falt’ring tongue meet tongue of full-toned 
strength. 

Caught by the never-ending rush of man 
And thing which passes down between the grim, 
Forbidding monuments that border there, 

I thought I felt the throbbing heart of streets. 

“ See you ! ” said he with touch of wilding spell, 
“ Life’s cup is filled to brim by gen’rous gods ! 
The depths of poet-heart, the runner’s speed. 
Philosophies, and elemental thrills 
Of waited hopes are all united here.” 


JPtiflfe One Hundred and Sixteen 


I heard the story then of painful rise, 

Retreat, retrieve ; of broken heart ; success. 

“ We breathe the blighting breath of hell ; the 
sweets 

Of victory. Some, in trembling, meet defeat 
And some with fronted face. To all are flung 
The guerdons rare ; these clutch at — and those 
grasp; 

But in its glory and vigor and hurts. 

The game’s much finer to me than its prize.” 
With aching heart, I asked him would he guide 
Me back to lanes where throbs a sweeter life. 
Amid the din and noise he made reply, 

“ Bethink thee not that this is all, because 
We, too, seek flick’ring light of hearths which 
But dignify our struggling efforts here — 

For home is vantage-ground to watch the game ; 
I stopped the play, to-day, to talk of home.” ^ 
But scarcely could I hear the words he said. 

For wails and exultations rising there. 

I cried out, “ Life ! I beg of thee — a song ! ” 

6 

And then I came upon a beaten way — 

A broad and travel-beaten way. Through heats 
And damps of topping upland space it led 
My tiring feet, and sometimes did it dip 
To quiet restful glade. One day my steps 
Fell careless near another’s steps whose plan 


Page One, Hundred and Seventeen 


^otttv anti %iU 


Of march seemed very like mine own. We spoke 
The thoughts that came, and revelled in the joys 
Of sight and sound which fell about ; and took 
The pains which sorrows pressed upon us as 
We ran our course along. And ere I knew 
Tielt the currents of both heart and mind 
^nounce his soul’s approach to mine. And then 
^:|^^pon a rock, whereon we sat to rest 

Our weary feet, he turned and said to me, 

“ Dearest ! I greet thee thus to frankly speak 
The thought which begged translation from my lips. 
Since this thrice-blessed mom made known to us 
The kinship of our souls. We’ve sounded life 
~^^ith plummets much the same ; the keen delight 
Of its fair things has stirred us, and we’ve dmnk 
Its sorrows. Wilt thou walk apart with me 
The stretch that lies beyond ? ” My woman’s 
mind 

And woman’s heart, in sweet agreement, bent 
Them toward each other, and made to lay 
Upon love’s altar-stone their joint reply. 

But came an angel’s face between who took 
My kiss and said: “This man hath matched thy soul 
So well thou couldst not know wherefore it is 
Not wise for thee to walk apart with him. 

He loves both life and thee, but best of all 
He loves one other thing — he loves himself. 

Thy friend hath God-made tastes and tastes of flesh. 
And he will feed when either list to cry 


Page One Hundred and Eighteen 


an6 %itt 


To him. Thou wouldst be manna for his soul, 
The table of his high resolve and best 
Achievement ; but away from thee he’d turn 
To feed the craven beast. He would full oft 
Be true to thee — he would ’twere thus alway — 
But come the brutish cry with stinging force, 
He’d beg, command the thing of hell to lay 
No challenge down ’gainst thee; yet he’d not fight 
A goodly fight for God, and love of thee. 

But with shut eyes he’d stagger lamely on. 

Sister, my vision runneth far ahead : 

This man would be no hero for thy love. 

I’ll keep thy kiss, do thou walk on alone.” 

7 

My quest was o’er. 

I raised my aching head. 
Night, many-eyed, still held its brooding watebx 
While the world slept its weariness away; 

And a great hush had entered in my breast — 
My woman’s heart was dead. In furious 
Arraignment rose my woman’s mind against 
This high-browed master — man : “ Thou pet of 
life. 

Thy love is a lie ! I fling thee the charge 
Wherever thou art, to-night, ’neath God’s great sky 
i would it could meet thee in sleepless dreams 
About thy fame arrived, or yet to come ; 

Could ring out sharp where the silent pauses 


Page One Hundred and Nineteen 


laortrp anti JLitt 

Are broke by sputt’ring light and rustl’ing page ; 
That it might jar the syren melodies, 

And out-sound the roar of thy trading-place. 

I wish it might reach thy sweetheart’s ear ere 
^ Thy false avowals weave for her the dream 
'Of unreal things ; and that thou might before 
* f^(^r stand, all-stripped and bared of godliness.” 
God, give me to walk the other steps 
Alone with Thee ; I \«11 hug close the pains 
Of tired head, weary feet, loveless heart. 

Till home be reached, where all of these I’ll lose 
In the great joy of seeing Thee. Amen.” 


^age One Siindred and Ttoenty 


POETRY HAD HAD ITS BATTLE OUT WITH LIFE 
AND LIFE STOOD BY THE VICTOR—” 


Page One Hundred and Twenty- One 


Qtit Riu 

. • «putt’nng K|^t and msd’ing r-. ^rt^. ; 

' >. V, , ;3^s 1 hat it might jar the syren melodies, 

, ' / ; V ou^sound the roar of thy tedSn^-pUce. 

^ ^ L':^^ ** % sv^thcart’s ear ere 

‘ > f«hc avowals vrcave for her ‘K- 

" ,ksja H'd^ii^'*'PSty4iti*l(tfBTl^54di!ditd;lv»rii(SS;ht before 

- ' .;: 1 ■ !;:h«°lS»cS^{XSrf[pa Wi %lkd of god!ir.-:s " 

i e '■ S«jiMe other fteps 

> ^«g close :he pains 

_y|r;f“ tired head, weary feet, loveless heart, v 
1 rJii home U reached, wher,; all c«f these 1*8 

la the grsc£ jjy of s'.4ag TT-r ^ Amen;' 







t . 







Pojtrp anD mte 


VIII 



Mrs. Moulton descended very late this par- 
ticular morning, and carried a telegram and a 
sealed envelope which she handed to a maid with 
the request that they be immediately dispatched. 
Turning to a table where lay the two pieces of 
mail, she recognized the “ Book of Letters ” at 
once, and with a movement of instinctive interest 
she reached for it, but noticing the handwriting 
on the envelope grasped the latter instead with 
an involuntary outcry, betokening 
frankest pleasure. 

Bessie knew well that beautiful lines 
the nearby “ Book,” but for days the 
poetry had been hovering low over her 
a broken wing. 

Poetry had had its battle out with 
life stood by the victor. 

Through sleepless night and 
she had come to see in herself marked traces of 
defect; that her intense, spiritual nature, drawn 
out by great talents and a high-planed love, 
forced her into a state of 
Yet beneath all these was 


J\zffe One Hundred and 


love for man. Bessie loved Bob ; she would do 
anything in the wide world for him, and mere 
pain or shame did not dictate her note of 
valediction on that cold November morning. 

Her condition of mind at parting from him 
ras produced by the consideration that if his 
>ve were as great as hers, he ought to be 
“willing to suffer for this love. He controlled the 
cause, she said, but would not give himself the 
pain of removing it. She, herself, had willingly 
suffered through endless months, caring naught 
about the cause, and she would gladly suffer all 
r life if there were need of it. She thought, 
the end, there was no need; and thus the 
pride of a really great love was hurt. 

Then, the poetic fountains had played in 
her soul for many a long day, and this keen 
sense of poetry, while it comprehended pain, 
rebelled before Bob’s blind plea of fatalistic 
weakness. 

But life and love had burned these barriers 
away and left in her soul pure God-made love 
of woman for man ; and she was now eager to 
go back to Bob even though she must travel 
beside the halt step of a drunkard for the rest of 
her life, and but crumbs be left to feed her 
hungering artist-soul. She was always the 
woman first, but now she was the woman first and 
last, and the poet, scarce at all. 


Pagt One Hundred and Twenty- Two 


taoetr? ana %ift 


A faint, sad smile appeared as she remembered 
with what eagerness she grasped the “ Book of 
Letters” when it was issued five years before, 
and now — . Her mind lost itself for a few 
moments. 

Ah, she did not know that in that gold-edged 
book and in that letter in her hand, there was 
another meeting of the dear old Trimurti. 
Herself in the flesh, whipping poetry into 
subjection with the lash of full-blooded life; 
Bob, in the letter, emerging from life’s furnace, 
chastened and strong; and Jack Worthington 
breathing in the pages of the ” Book of Letters,” 
and turning upon life the biting scourge of poetry. 

It was really the very last meeting of the Tri 
and Bob was in speech. 

Bessie read: 

Dearest Friend — Sweetheart — ^Wife: 

My soul has just caught out of the infinite 
vistas, the story of a life which draws upon th 
deepest wells of my nature, and would pour 
itself out to you in the gray quietude of this 
autumn evening. 

I will set it here as simply as I may and just 
as it has broken in upon me: 

A bit of a shape with a kiss from its 
shot its way through elemental night till i 

Pape One Hundred and Twenty-Three 


and %itt 



chanced on a course, where it rested and whirled 
like a world in an ordered way. Along and 
around it moved on the course, and it grew 
with the passing of time, and three little lands 
burst out into view and life was aglow in the 
light of a star. 

The three little lands are countries of Clay 
Mind, and of Heart, and the blossoming life 
which stirred in these lands is the passion to 
eat, and to look, and to love. 

Again and again broke day ; and on sped the 
world with quickening throbs in three little lands, 
Md callings of voices from wonderous worlds 
ich crossed and re-crossed its broadening 
course, and shadowed the light of the far away 
stars. 

When a cycle was done, came swift little 
forms to taste in the land of the Clay; and keen 
little things to think in the land of the Mind; 
and dear little things to love in the land of the 
Heart. 

’Twas then that the King went up on his 
throne and swept with his eye the whole of his 
realm. * Twas then that he made the gentlest 
of laws to guide creatures of sense, deliria-bent, 
who roam in the land of the Clay; little 
people of thought with dreams and with plans, 
who work in the land of the Mind; little 
beings of love with out-streched arms, and arms 


Page One Hundred and Twenty-Four 


^otttp anD JLiit 

clasped tight, who live in the land of the 
Heart. 

With touch of pride at sight of his lands, the 
King lidded his eye and sleep held him fast on 
his throne. 

One day a creature of sense, delirium-mad, 
swept viciously over the neighboring lands and 
hurtled most harsh the people of thought, and 
brutally struck the dear-ones of love; yet one, 
without fear, just smiled when he struck, and 
this was the little love-queen. 

And when the mad creature went back to 
his land, little people of thought with rubbing of 
eyes and shaking of head, went off to their 
charts and their dreams. But for a wee time 
little beings of love anointed the hurts on their 



brave, held fast with sore litde arms. 

The creature of sense, delirium-mad, made 
many more raids in the bordering lands; a^ 
always the hurts and ever the wounds, but 
never a sign of th^ strokes in the smile of the 
little love-queen. 

Oh, pity the King 1 
One sad, sad day, when the creature was 
crazed, fell a torrent of blows in both of the 
lands; and when he was come for his last 
foul stroke, ah, me! the little love-queen was 
gone. 


Page One Hundred and Twenty-Five 


^otttv anil %itt 




Again and again ravaged the creature of 
sense in the lands of Mind and of Heart, and 
time after time, to little workshops the people of 
thought went limping along, and poor little arms 
of beings of love were never ache-free any 
more. But never came back the little love- 
leen who went to a far-off world. 

©ne late passed day, in awfulest words came 
fi^t in the land of the Mind. The pale little 
^ople arose from their bench and scattered 
their tools for fashioning thoughts, and hastened 
away to the King on his throne. 

The King was aroused. And over his 
world, his desolate world, went the cry of a 
made law : 

Each land hath been made alone for its 
kind; little creatures to taste in the land of 
the Clay; little people to think in the land of 
the Mind ; little beings to love in the land of the 
Heart. 

“All must be strong for the rights of their 
lands and the duty they owe to the King ; and if 
one should engage in a plundering quest, the two 
must unite and resist with their might, and the 
King will not fail to send spirits of light to the 
side of the brave and the just.” 

And from sound of that law little armies of 
thought and armies of love have carefully watched 
the land of the Clay ; and if creatures of sense. 


Fage One Hundred and Twenty-Six 


tSoftr? anil ILiU 


deliria-bent, should otfer to cross the hordering 
lands they would whisper for help to spirits of 
light, and fight for their dear little lives. 

Dearest, for the little love-queen waits the old- 
time clasp of the outstretched arms. 

Bob. 


When Bessie had read the letter through to 
its lovely end she looked up in happy abstraction 
and half murmured, 

“ Dear old Boh — ever the poet — the lover — 
God’s nobleman ! ” 

Yet, ere the seal of his letter was broke the 
little love-queen had gone trustingly hack, and 
now was locked in the old-time clasp of the out- 
stretched arms which waited for her on the 
shores of a glad, wild sea. 


Page One hundred and Twenty^Seven 


Poetrg anti %itt 


Mr. Robert Moulton, 


W 


i 


S , March 24, 1 9 — • 


I am leaving for home at noon to-day. 


Bessie. 


Page One Hundred and Twenty-Eight 


anti %iU 


S . March 24. 19— 

My dear Mr. Davies: 

I want you to feel how smcerely I appreciate your 
telegram of congratulation, although the information gives 
me the saddest touch of surprise I have experienced in a 
long time. 

While your message conveys that “A Night in the 
Desert** was the only eligible offering, and that therefore 
the Artists* Board had absolutely nothing to do with its 
selection. Mr. Moulton*s identification with the latter 
was only the lesser important of two reasons which 
prompted me to withdraw it. 

It was. indeed, kindly intentioned on your part to 
disregard my wishes when the cause which apparently 
produced them had been removed ; yet. I did so want 
to call those spirit flutterings back. 

As the “ Book of Letters.** you advise, is now issued. I 
accept the situation with a high sense of the honor it 
confers. 

Assuring you of my esteem and appreciation. I am 
Cordially yours. 

Elizabeth Maxon Moulton. 


Mr. Wendall Davies. 

Pres*t The Erato Society. 
Granville Building. New York. 


Page One Hundred and Twenty-Nine 



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